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"EVERY    DAY     .     .     .      THEY   DROVE   TO 
THE   COUNTY   JAIL   TO    SEE   HIM." 


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BEING  THE  NARRATIVE 
OF  JUDGE  PRIEST 
AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


BY     ^ 

IRVIN  S.   COBB 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE   H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1911  AHD  191  a 
BY  TDK  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPAHI 


COPYRIGHT,    1912 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAS  COMPANY 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


PREFACE 


AFTER  I  came  North  to  live  it  seemed 
to  me,  as  probably  it  has  seemed  to 
many  Southern  born  men  and  women 
that  the  Southerner  of  fiction  as  met 
with  in  the  North   was  generally  just  that — 
fiction — and  nothing  else;    that   in  the  main 
he  was  a  figment  of  the  drama  and  of  the  story 
book;  a  type  that  had  no  just  claim  on  exist 
ence    and    yet    a    type    that    was    currently 
accepted  as  a  verity. 

From  well  meaning  persons  who  apparently 
wished  to  convey  an  implied  compliment  for 
the  southern  part  of  this  republic  I  was  for 
ever  hearing  of  "southern  pride"  and  "hot 
southern  blood"  and  "old  southern  families," 
these  matters  being  mentioned  always  with  a 
special  emphasis  which  seemed  to  betray  a 
profound  conviction  on  the  part  of  the  speakers 
that  there  was  a  certain  physical,  tangible, 
measurable  distinction  between,  say,  the  pride 
of  a  Southerner  and  the  blood-temperature  of 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

a  Southerner  and  the  pride  and  blood  heat  of 
a  man  whose  parents  had  chosen  some  other 
part  of  the  United  States  as  a  suitable  place 
for  him  to  be  born  in.  Had  these  persons 
spoken  of  things  which  I  knew  to  be  a  part 
and  parcel  of  the  Southerner's  nature — such 
things  for  example  as  his  love  for  his  own 
state  and  his  honest  veneration  for  the  records 
made  by  men  of  southern  birth  and  southern 
blood  in  the  Civil  War — I  might  have  under 
stood  them.  But  seemingly  they  had  never 
heard  of  those  matters. 

I  also  discovered  or  thought  I  discovered 
that  as  a  rule  the  Southerner  as  seen  on  the 
stage  or  found  between  the  covers  of  a  book 
or  a  magazine  was  drawn  from  a  more  or  less 
imaginary  top  stratum  of  southern  life,  or 
else  from  a  bottom-most  stratum — either  he 
purported  to  be  an  elderly,  un-reconstructed, 
high-tempered  gentleman  of  highly  aristocratic 
tendencies  residing  in  a  feudal  state  of  shabby 
grandeur  and  proud  poverty  on  a  plantation 
gone  to  seed;  or  he  purported  to  be  a  pure 
white  of  the  poorest.  With  a  few  exceptions 
the  playwright  and  the  story  writers  were 
not  taking  into  account  sundry  millions  of 
southern  born  people  who  were  neither  venera 
ble  and  fiery  colonels  with  frayed  wrist  bands 
and  limp  collars,  nor  yet  were  they  snuff- 

[  viii  ] 


PREFACE 

dipping,  ginseng-digging  clay-eaters,  but  just 
such  folk  as  allowing  for  certain  temperamental 
differences — created  by  climate  and  soil  and 
tradition  and  by  two  other  main  contributing 
causes:  the  ever-present  race  question  and  the 
still  living  and  vivid  memories  of  the  great 
war — might  be  found  as  numerously  in  Iowa 
or  Indiana  or  any  other  long-settled,  typically 
American  commonwealth  as  in  Tennessee  or 
Georgia  or  Mississippi,  having  the  same  aspira 
tions,  the  same  blood  in  their  veins,  the  same 
impulses  and  being  prone  under  almost  any 
conceivable  condition  to  do  the  same  thing  in 
much  the  same  way. 

Viewing  my  own  state  and  my  own  people 
across  the  perspective  of  time  and  distance  I 
had  the  ambition  to  set  down  on  paper,  as  faith 
fully  as  I  might,  a  representation  of  those  people 
as  I  knew  them.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  to  de 
clare  that  I  sensed  any  audible  and  visible 
demand  for  such  a  piece  of  writing;  so  far  as  I 
know  there  has  been  no  such  demand.  It  was 
my  own  notion  solely.  I  wanted,  if  I  could, 
to  describe  what  I  believed  to  be  an  average 
southern  community  so  that  others  might  see 
it  as  I  had  seen  it.  This  book  is  the  result  of 
that  desire. 

For  my  material  I  draw  upon  the  life  of 
that  community  as  I  remembered  it.  Most  of 

[ix] 


PREFACE 

the  characters  that  figure  in  the  events  herein 
after  described  were  copies,  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  as  a  copyist,  of  real  models;  and  for 
some  of  the  events  themselves  there  was 
in  the  first  place  a  fairly  substantial  basis  of 
fact. 

Having  such  an  aim  I  wrote  what  I  con 
ceived  to  be  a  series  of  pictures,  out  of  the 
life  of  a  town  in  the  western  part  of  Kentucky; 
that  part  of  Kentucky  which  gave  to  the 
nation  among  others,  Abraham  Lincoln  and 
Jefferson  Davis.  These  pictures  fell  into 
the  form  of  inter-related  stories,  and  as 
such  were  first  printed  in  the  Saturday  Even 
ing  Post.  They  are  now  offered  here  as  a 
whole. 

I.  S.  C. 

NEW  YOBK,  November.  1912. 


[x] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAQE 

I.    WORDS  AND   MUSIC 3 

II.  THE  COUNTY  TROT 37 

m.  FIVE  HUNDRED  DOLLARS  REWARD  .  .  70 

IV.  A  JUDGMENT  COME  TO  DANIEL  ...  102 

V.  UP  CLAY  STREET 131 

VI.  WHEN  THE  FIGHTING  WAS  GOOD  .  .  167 

VII.  STRATAGEM  AND  SPOILS 201 

VIII.  THE  MOB  FROM  MASSAC 246 

IX.  A  DOGGED  UNDER  DOG 284 

X.  BLACK  AND  WHITE  .  315 


[xi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Every  Day  .     .     .  they  drove  to  the  County  Jail  to 

see  him" Frontispiece 

PAGE 

The  Sound  Swelled  and  Rippled  and  Rose — the  Marching 

Song  of  Forrest's  Men 32 

"All  Jackson  Berry  Knew  was  that  the  Muzzle  of  an 

Awful  Weapon  was  Following  Him" 64 

"Be  Not  Alarmed,  Friends.  The  Subject  is  in  no  Danger"  114 
"Til  Fix  Him— Red-Lighting  Me  Off  My  Own  Privilege 

Car" 148 

"Now  Then,  You  Next" 190 

"Bless  Your  Heart,  Son!"  Said  the  Judge,  Soothingly,  "I 

Wouldn't  Think  of  Usin'  a  Gun  on  You" 238 

"Jedge  Priest,  Please,  Suh,  Wake  up  —  the  Mobbers  is 

Comin'!" 268 

"Til  be  back  agin,  Mister,  one  Month  frum  Today.  Wait 

fur  Me'" 302 

"He  Warn't  Nothin'  but  Jes'  a  Boy,  ez  I  Told  You"  .  .  340 


[  xiii  ] 


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I 

WORDS  AND  MUSIC 


"W  "IT    THEN  Breck  Tandy  killed  a  man  he 
%  /%  /      made  a  number  of  mistakes.     In 
y     y        the  first  place,  he  killed  the  most 
popular     man     in     Forked     Deer 
County  —  the    county    clerk,    a    man    named 
Abner   J.   Rankin.     In   the   second   place,   he 
killed  him  with  no  witnesses  present,  so  that 
it  stood  his  word  —  and  he  a  newcomer  and  a 
stranger  —  against   the   mute,   eloquent   accu 
sation   of   a  riddled   dead   man.     And   in   the 
third  place,  he  sent  north  of  the  Ohio  River 
for  a  lawyer  to  defend  him. 


On  the  first  Monday  in  June  —  Court  Mon 
day  —  the  town  filled  up  early.  Before  the 
field  larks  were  out  of  the  grass  the  farmers 
were  tying  their  teams  to  the  gnawed  hitch- 
racks  along  the  square.  By  nine  o'clock  the 
swapping  ring  below  the  wagonyard  was  swim 
ming  in  red  dust  and  clamorous  with  the  chaffer 
of  the  horse-traders.  In  front  of  a  vacant 

131 


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store  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society  of  Zion  Baptist 
Church  had  a  canvas  sign  out,  announcing  that 
an  elegant  dinner  would  be  served  for  twenty- 
five  cents  from  twelve  to  one,  also  ice  cream 
and  cake  all  day  for  fifteen  cents. 

The  narrow  wooden  sidewalks  began  to 
creak  and  churn  under  the  tread  of  many 
feet.  A  long-haired  medicine  doctor  emerged 
from  his  frock-coat  like  a  locust  coming  out 
of  its  shell,  pushed  his  high  hat  off  his  fore 
head  and  ranged  a  guitar,  sundry  bottles  of  a 
potent  mixture,  his  tooth-pulling  forceps,  and 
a  trick-handkerchief  upon  the  narrow  shelf 
of  his  stand  alongside  the  Drummers'  Home 
Hotel.  In  front  of  the  little  dingy  tent  of  the 
Half  Man  and  Half  Horse  a  yellow  negro  sat 
on  a  split-bottom  chair  limbering  up  for  a  hard 
day.  This  yellow  negro  was  an  artist.  He 
played  a  common  twenty-cent  mouth  organ, 
using  his  left  hand  to  slide  it  back  and  forth 
across  his  spread  lips.  The  other  hand  held 
a  pair  of  polished  beef  bones,  such  as  end  men 
wield,  and  about  the  wrist  was  buckled  a  broad 
leather  strap  with  three  big  sleigh-bells  riveted 
loosely  to  the  leather,  so  that  he  could  clap 
the  bones  and  shake  the  bells  with  the  same 
motion.  He  was  a  whole  orchestra  in  himself. 
He  could  play  on  his  mouth  organ  almost  any 
tune  you  wanted,  and  with  his  bones  and  his 
bells  to  help  out  he  could  creditably  imitate 
a  church  organ,  a  fife-and-drum  corps,  or, 
indeed,  a  full  brass  band.  He  had  his  chair 

[41 


WORDS   AND   MUSIC 


tilted  back  until  his  woolly  head  dented  a 
draggled  banner  depicting  in  five  faded  primary 
colors  the  physical  attractions  of  the  Half 
Man  and  Half  Horse  —  Marvel  of  the  Century 
—  and  he  tested  his  mouth  organ  with  short, 
mellow,  tentative  blasts  as  he  waited  until  the 
Marvel  and  the  Marvel's  manager  finished  a 
belated  breakfast  within  and  the  first  ballyhoo 
could  start.  He  was  practicing  the  newest 
of  the  ragtime  airs  to  get  that  far  South.  The 
name  of  it  was  The  Georgia  Camp-Meeting. 
The  town  marshal  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with 
a  big  silver  shield  pinned  to  the  breast  of  his 
unbuttoned  blue  waistcoat  and  a  hickory  stick 
with  a  crook  handle  for  added  emblem  of 
authority,  stalked  the  town  drunkard,  fair 
game  at  all  seasons  and  especially  on  Court 
Monday.  The  town  gallant  whirled  back  and 
forth  the  short  hilly  length  of  Main  Street  in  his 
new  side-bar  buggy.  A  clustering  group  of 
negroes  made  a  thick,  black  blob,  like  hiving 
bees,  in  front  of  a  negro  fishhouse,  from  which 
came  the  smell  and  sounds  of  perch  and  channel 
cat  frying  on  spitting-hot  skillets.  High  up 
on  the  squat  cupola  of  the  courthouse  a  red 
headed  woodpecker  clung,  barred  in  crimson, 
white,  and  blue-black,  like  a  bit  of  living  bunt 
ing,  engaged  in  the  hopeless  task  of  trying  to 
drill  through  the  tin  sheathing.  The  rolling 
rattle  of  his  beak's  tattoo  came  down  sharply 
to  the  crowds  below.  Mourning  doves  called 
to  one  another  in  the  trees  round  the  red-brick 

[5] 


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courthouse,  and  at  ten  o'clock,  when  the  sun 
was  high  and  hot,  the  sheriff  came  out  and, 
standing  between  two  hollow  white  pillars, 
rapped  upon  one  of  them  with  a  stick  and  called 
upon  all  witnesses  and  talesmen  to  come 
into  court  for  the  trial  of  John  Breckinridge 
Tandy,  charged  with  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  common 
wealth  of  Tennessee  and  the  statutes  made  and 
provided. 

But  this  ceremonial  by  the  sheriff  was  for 
form  rather  than  effect,  since  the  witnesses  and 
the  talesmen  all  sat  in  the  circuit-court  chamber 
along  with  as  many  of  the  population  of  Forked 
Deer  County  as  could  squeeze  in  there.  Already 
the  air  of  the  crowded  chamber  was  choky  with 
heat  and  rancid  with  smell.  Men  were  perched 
precariously  in  the  ledges  of  the  windows. 
More  men  were  ranged  in  rows  along  the 
plastered  walls,  clunking  their  heels  against 
the  cracked  wooden  baseboards.  The  two 
front  rows  of  benches  were  full  of  women.  For 
this  was  to  be  the  big  case  of  the  June  term  — 
a  better  show  by  long  odds  than  the  Half  Man 
and  Half  Horse. 

Inside  the  low  railing  that  divided  the  room 
and  on  the  side  nearer  the  jury  box  were  the 
forces  of  the  defense.  Under  his  skin  the 
prisoner  showed  a  sallow  paleness  born  of  his 
three  months  in  the  county  jail.  He  was  tall 
and  dark  and  steady  eyed,  a  young  man,  well 
under  thirty.  He  gave  no  heed  to  those  who 

[6] 


WORDS   AND  MUSIC 


sat  in  packed  rows  behind  him,  wishing  him  evil. 
He  kept  his  head  turned  front,  only  bending  it 
sometimes  to  whisper  with  one  of  his  lawyers 
or  one  of  his  witnesses.  Frequently,  though, 
his  hand  went  out  in  a  protecting,  reassuring 
way  to  touch  his  wife's  brown  hair  or  to  rest  a 
moment  on  her  small  shoulder.  She  was  a 
plain,  scared,  shrinking  little  thing.  The  fingers 
of  her  thin  hands  were  plaited  desperately 
together  in  her  lap.  Already  she  was  trembling. 
Once  in  a  while  she  would  raise  her  face,  showing 
shallow  brown  eyes  dilated  with  fright,  and 
then  sink  her  head  again  like  a  quail  trying 
to  hide.  She  looked  pitiable  and  lonely. 

The  chief  attorney  for  the  defense  was  half 
turned  from  the  small  counsel  table  where  he 
might  study  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  He  was 
from  Middle  Indiana,  serving  his  second  term 
in  Congress.  If  his  party  held  control  of  the 
state  he  would  go  to  the  Senate  after  the  next 
election.  He  was  an  orator  of  parts  and  a 
pleader  of  almost  a  national  reputation.  He 
had  manly  grace  and  he  was  a  fine,  upstanding 
figure  of  a  man,  and  before  now  he  had  wrung 
victories  out  of  many  difficult  cases.  But  he 
chilled  to  his  finger-nails  with  apprehensions  of 
disaster  as  he  glanced  searchingly  about  the 
close-packed  room. 

Wherever  he  looked  he  saw  no  friendliness 
at  all.  He  could  feel  the  hostility  of  that 
crowd  as  though  it  had  substance  and  body. 
It  was  a  tangible  thing;  it  was  almost  a  physical 

[7] 


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thing.  Why,  you  could  almost  put  your  hand 
out  and  touch  it.  It  was  everywhere  there. 

And  it  focussed  and  was  summed  up  in  the 
person  of  Aunt  Tilly  Haslett,  rearing  on  the 
very  front  bench  with  her  husband,  Uncle 
Fayette,  half  hidden  behind  her  vast  and  over 
flowing  bulk.  Aunt  Tilly  made  public  opinion 
in  Hyattsville.  Indeed  she  was  public  opinion 
in  that  town.  In  her  it  had  its  up-comings  and 
its  out-flo wings.  She  held  herself  bolt  upright, 
filling  out  the  front  of  her  black  bombazine 
basque  until  the  buttons  down  its  front  strained 
at  their  buttonholes.  With  wide,  deliberate 
strokes  she  fanned  herself  with  a  palm-leaf  fan. 
The  fan  had  an  edging  of  black  tape  sewed 
round  it  —  black  tape  signifying  in  that  com 
munity  age  or  mourning,  or  both.  Her  jaw 
was  set  like  a  steel  latch,  and  her  little  gray 
eyes  behind  her  steel-bowed  specs  were  leveled 
with  a  baleful,  condemning  glare  that  included 
the  strange  lawyer,  his  client,  his  client's  wife, 
and  all  that  was  his  client's. 

Congressman  Durham  looked  and  knew  that 
his  presence  was  an  affront  to  Aunt  Tilly  and 
all  those  who  sat  with  her;  that  his  somewhat 
vivid  tie,  his  silken  shirt,  his  low  tan  shoes, 
his  new  suit  of  gray  flannels  —  a  masterpiece 
of  the  best  tailor  in  Indianapolis  —  were  as 
insults,  added  up  and  piled  on,  to  this  sus- 
pendered,  gingham-shirted  constituency.  Better 
than  ever  he  realized  now  the  stark  hopelessness 
of  the  task  to  which  his  hands  were  set.  And 

[8] 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


he  dreaded  what  was  coming  almost  as  much 
for  himself  as  for  the  man  he  was  hired  to  defend. 
But  he  was  a  trained  veteran  of  courtroom 
campaigns,  and  there  was  a  jauntily  assumed 
confidence  in  his  bearing  as  he  swung  himself 
about  and  made  a  brisk  show  of  conferring  with 
the  local  attorney  who  was  to  aid  him  in  the 
choosing  of  the  jurors  and  the  questioning  of 
the  witnesses. 

But  it  was  real  confidence  and  real  jauntiness 
that  radiated  from  the  other  wing  of  the  in- 
closure,  where  the  prosecutor  sat  with  the 
assembled  bar  of  Forked  Deer  County  on  his 
flanks,  volunteers  upon  the  favored  side,  lending 
to  it  the  moral  support  of  weight  and  numbers. 
Rankin,  the  dead  man,  having  been  a  bachelor, 
State's  Attorney  Gilliam  could  bring  no  lorn 
widow  and  children  to  mourn  before  the  jurors' 
eyes  and  win  added  sympathy  for  his  cause. 
Lacking  these  most  valued  assets  of  a  murder 
trial  he  supplied  their  places  with  the  sisters 
of  the  dead  man  —  two  sparse-built  elderly 
women  in  heavy  black,  with  sweltering  thick 
veils  down  over  their  faces.  When  the  proper 
time  came  he  would  have  them  raise  these  veils 
and  show  their  woeful  faces,  but  now  they  sat 
shrouded  all  in  crepe,  fit  figures  of  desolation 
and  sorrow.  He  fussed  about  busily,  fiddling 
the  quill  toothpick  that  hung  perilously  in  the 
corner  of  his  mouth  and  evening  up  the  edges 
of  a  pile  of  law  books  with  freckled  calfskin 
covers.  He  was  a  lank,  bony  garfish  of  a  man, 

[9] 


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with  a  white  goatee  aggressively  protruding 
from  his  lower  lip.  He  was  a  poor  speaker  but 
mighty  as  a  cross-examiner,  and  he  was  serving 
his  first  term  and  was  a  candidate  for  another. 
He  wore  the  official  garbing  of  special  and 
extraordinary  occasions  —  long  black  coat  and 
limp  white  waistcoat  and  gray  striped  trousers, 
a  trifle  short  in  the  legs.  He  felt  the  importance 
of  his  place  here  almost  visibly  —  his  figure 
swelled  and  expanded  out  his  clothes. 

"Look  yonder  at  Tom  Gilliam,"  said  Mr. 
Lukins,  the  grocer,  in  tones  of  whispered  admi 
ration  to  his  next-elbow  neighbor,  "jest  prunin' 
and  honin'  hisse'f  to  git  at  that  there  Tandy 
and  his  dude  Yankee  lawyer.  If  he  don't 
chaw  both  of  'em  up  together  I'll  be  dad- 
burned." 

"You  bet,"  whispered  back  his  neighbor  — 
it  was  Aunt  Tilly's  oldest  son,  Fayette,  Junior 
—  "it's  like  Maw  says  —  time's  come  to  teach 
them  murderin'  Kintuckians  they  can't  be 
a-comin'  down  here  a-killin'  up  people  and  not 
pay  for  it.  I  reckon,  Mr.  Lukins,"  added 
Fayette,  Junior,  with  a  wriggle  of  pleased 
anticipation,  "we  shore  are  goin'  to  see  some 
carryin's-on  in  this  cotehouse  today." 

Mr.  Lukins'  reply  was  lost  to  history  because 
just  then  the  judge  entered  —  an  elderly, 
kindly-looking  man  —  from  his  chambers  in 
the  rear,  with  the  circuit-court  clerk  right 
behind  him  bearing  large  leather-clad  books  and 
sheaves  of  foolscap  paper.  Their  coming  made 

[10] 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


a  bustle.  Aunt  Tilly  squared  herself  forward, 
scrooging  Uncle  Fayette  yet  farther  into  the 
eclipse  of  her  shapeless  figure.  The  prisoner 
raised  his  head  and  eyed  his  judge.  His  wife 
looked  only  at  the  interlaced,  weaving  fingers 
in  her  lap. 

The  formalities  of  the  opening  of  a  term  of 
court  were  mighty  soon  over;  there  was  every 
where  manifest  a  haste  to  get  at  the  big  thing. 
The  clerk  called  the  case  of  the  Commonwealth 
versus  Tandy.  Both  sides  were  ready.  Through 
the  local  lawyer,  delegated  for  these  smaller 
purposes,  the  accused  man  pleaded  not  guilty. 
The  clerk  spun  the  jury  wheel,  which  was  a 
painted  wooden  drum  on  a  creaking  wooden 
axle,  and  drew  forth  a  slip  of  paper  with  the 
name  of  a  talesman  written  upon  it  and  read 
aloud : 

"Isom  W.  Tolliver." 

In  an  hour  the  jury  was  complete:  two  towns 
men,  a  clerk  and  a  telegraph  operator,  and  ten 
men  from  the  country  —  farmers  mainly  and 
one  blacksmith  and  one  horse-trader.  Three 
of  the  panel  who  owned  up  frankly  to  a  fixed 
bias  had  been  let  go  by  consent  of  both  sides. 
Three  more  were  sure  they  could  give  the 
defendant  a  fair  trial,  but  those  three  the  local 
lawyer  had  challenged  peremptorily.  The  others 
were  accepted  as  they  came.  The  foreman  was 
a  brownskinned,  sparrowhawk-looking  old  man, 
with  a  smoldering  brown  eye.  He  had  spare, 
knotted  hands,  like  talons,  and  the  right  one 

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was  marred  and  twisted,  with  a  sprayed  bluish 
scar  in  the  midst  of  the  crippled  knuckles  like 
the  mark  of  an  old  gunshot  wound.  Juror 
No.  4  was  a  stodgy  old  man,  a  small  planter 
from  the  back  part  of  the  county,  who  fanned 
himself  steadily  with  a  brown-varnished  straw 
hat.  No.  7  was  even  older,  a  white-whiskered 
patriarch  on  crutches.  The  twelfth  juryman 
was  the  oldest  of  the  twelve  —  he  looked  to  be 
almost  seventy,  but  he  went  into  the  box  after 
he  had  sworn  that  his  sight  and  hearing  and 
general  health  were  good  and  that  he  still 
could  do  his  ten  hours  a  day  at  his  blacksmith 
shop.  This  juryman  chewed  tobacco  without 
pause.  Twice  after  he  took  his  seat  at  the 
back  end  of  the  double  line  he  tried  for  a 
wooden  cuspidor  ten  feet  away.  Both  were 
creditable  attempts,  but  he  missed  each  time. 
Seeing  the  look  of  gathering  distress  in  his  eyes 
the  sheriff  brought  the  cuspidor  nearer,  and 
thereafter  No.  12  was  content,  chewing  steadily 
like  some  bearded  contemplative  ruminant  and 
listening  attentively  to  the  evidence,  mean 
while  scratching  a  very  wiry  head  of  whity-red 
hair  with  a  thumbnail  that  through  some  injury 
had  taken  on  the  appearance  of  a  very  thick, 
very  black  Brazil  nut.  This  scratching  made 
a  raspy,  filing  sound  .that  after  a  while  got  on 
Congressman  Durham's  nerves. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  prose 
cution  rested  its  case  and  court  adjourned  until 
the  following  morning.  The  state's  attorney 

[12] 


WORDS   AND    MUSIC 


had  not  had  so  very  much  evidence  to  offer, 
really  —  the  testimony  of  one  who  heard  the 
single  shot  and  ran  in  at  Rankin's  door  to  find 
Rankin  upon  the  floor,  about  dead,  with  a  pistol, 
unfired,  in  his  hand  and  Tandy  standing  against 
the  wall  with  a  pistol,  fired,  in  his;  the  constable 
to  whom  Tandy  surrendered;  the  physician 
who  examined  the  body;  the  persons  who  knew 
of  the  quarrel  between  Tandy  and  Rankin 
growing  out  of  a  land  deal  into  which  they  had 
gone  partners  —  not  much,  but  enough  for 
Gilliam's  purposes.  Once  in  the  midst  of 
examining  a  witness  the  state's  attorney, 
seemingly  by  accident,  let  his  look  fall  upon  the 
two  black-robed,  silent  figures  at  his  side,  and 
as  though  overcome  by  the  sudden  realization 
of  a  great  grief,  he  faltered  and  stopped  dead 
and  sank  down.  It  was  an  old  trick,  but  well 
done,  and  a  little  humming  murmur  like  a 
breeze  coming  through  treetops  swept  the 
audience. 

Durham  was  sick  in  his  soul  as  he  came  away. 
In  his  mind  there  stood  the  picture  of  a  little, 
scared  woman's  drawn,  drenched  face.  She 
had  started  crying  before  the  last  juror  was 
chosen  and  thereafter  all  day,  at  half -minute 
intervals,  the  big,  hard  sobs  racked  her.  As 
Durham  came  down  the  steps  he  had  almost 
to  shove  his  way  through  a  knot  of  natives  out 
side  the  doors.  They  grudged  him  the  path 
they  made  for  him,  and  as  he  showed  them  his 
back  he  heard  a  snicker  and  some  one  said  a 

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thing  that  cut  him  where  he  was  already  bruised 
—  in  his  egotism.  But  he  gave  no  heed  to  the 
words.  What  was  the  use? 

At  the  Drummers'  Home  Hotel  a  darky 
waiter  sustained  a  profound  shock  when  the 
imported  lawyer  declined  the  fried  beefsteak 
with  fried  potatoes  and  also  the  fried  ham  and 
eggs.  Mastering  his  surprise  the  waiter  offered 
to  try  to  get  the  Northern  gentleman  a  fried 
pork  chop  and  some  fried  June  apples,  but 
Durham  only  wanted  a  glass  of  milk  for  his 
supper.  He  drank  it  and  smoked  a  cigar, 
and  about  dusk  he  went  upstairs  to  his  room. 
There  he  found  assembled  the  forlorn  rank  and 
file  of  the  defense,  the  local  lawyer  and  three 
character  witnesses  —  prominent  citizens  from 
Tandy's  home  town  who  were  to  testify  to 
his  good  repute  in  the  place  where  he  was  born 
and  reared.  These  would  be  the  only  witnesses, 
except  Tandy  himself,  that  Durham  meant  to 
call.  One  of  them  was  a  bustling  little  man 
named  Felsburg,  a  clothing  merchant,  and  one 
was  Colonel  Quigley,  a  banker  and  an  ex-mayor, 
and  the  third  was  a  Judge  Priest,  who  sat  on 
a  circuit-court  bench  back  in  Kentucky.  In 
contrast  to  his  size,  which  was  considerable, 
this  Judge  Priest  had  a  voice  that  was  high  and 
whiny.  He  also  had  the  trick,  common  to  many 
men  in  politics  in  his  part  of  the  South,  of 
being  purposely  ungrammatical  at  times. 

This  mannerism  led  a  lot  of  people  into  think 
ing  that  the  judge  must  be  an  uneducated  man 

[14] 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


—  until  they  heard  him  charging  a  jury  or 
reading  one  of  his  rulings.  The  judge  had 
other  peculiarities.  In  conversation  he  nearly 
always  called  men  younger  than  himself,  son. 
He  drank  a  little  bit  too  much  sometimes; 
and  nobody  had  ever  beaten  him  for  any 
office  he  coveted.  Durham  didn't  know  what 
to  make  of  this  old  judge  —  sometimes  he 
seemed  simple-minded  to  the  point  of  child 
ishness  almost. 

The  others  were  gathered  about  a  table  by 
a  lighted  kerosene  lamp,  but  the  old  judge  sat 
at  an  open  window  with  his  low-quarter  shoes 
off  and  his  white-socked  feet  propped  against 
the  ledge.  He  was  industriously  stoking  at  a 
home-made  corncob  pipe.  He  pursed  up  his 
mouth,  pulling  at  the  long  cane  stem  of  his  pipe 
with  little  audible  sucks.  From  the  rocky 
little  street  below  the  clatter  of  departing  farm 
teams  came  up  to  him.  The  Indian  medicine 
doctor  was  taking  down  his  big  white  umbrella 
and  packing  up  his  regalia.  The  late  canvas 
habitat  of  the  Half  Man  and  Half  Horse  had 
been  struck  and  was  gone,  leaving  only  the 
pole-holes  in  the  turf  and  a  trodden  space  to 
show  where  it  had  stood.  Court  would  go  on 
all  week,  but  Court  Monday  was  over  and  for 
another  month  the  town  would  doze  along 
peacefully. 

Durham  slumped  himself  into  a  chair  that 
screeched  protestingly  in  all  its  infirm  joints. 
The  heart  was  gone  clean  out  of  him. 

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"I  don't  understand  these  people  at  all," 
he  confessed.  "We're  beating  against  a  stone 
wall  with  our  bare  hands." 

"If  it  should  be  money  now  that  you're 
needing,  Mister  Durham,"  spoke  up  Felsburg, 
"that  boy  Tandy's  father  was  my  very  good 
friend  when  I  first  walked  into  that  town  with 
a  peddling  pack  on  my  back,  and  if  it  should 
be  money-  — ?" 

"It  isn't  money,  Mr.  Felsburg,"  said  Dur 
ham.  "If  I  didn't  get  a  cent  for  my  services 
I'd  still  fight  this  case  out  to  the  end  for  the 
sake  of  that  game  boy  and  that  poor  little  mite 
of  a  wife  of  his.  It  isn't  money  or  the  lack  of 
it  —  it's  the  damned  hate  they've  built  up 
here  against  the  man.  Why,  you  could  cut 
it  off  in  chunks  —  the  prejudice  that  there  was 
in  that  courthouse  today." 

"Son,"  put  in  Judge  Priest  in  his  high,  weedy 
voice,  "I  reckon  maybe  you're  right.  I've 
been  projectin'  around  cotehouses  a  good  many 
years,  and  I've  taken  notice  that  when  a  jury 
look  at  a  prisoner  all  the  time  and  never  look 
at  his  women  folks  it's  a  monstrous  bad  sign. 
And  that's  the  way  it  was  all  day  today." 

"The  judge  will  be  fair  —  he  always  is," 
said  Hightower,  the  local  lawyer,  "and  of  course 
Gilliam  is  only  doing  his  duty.  Those  jurors  are 
as  good  solid  men  as  you  can  find  in  this  country 
anywhere.  But  they  can't  help  being  preju 
diced.  Human  nature's  not  strong  enough  to 
stand  out  against  the  feeling  that's  grown  up 

[16] 


WORDS   AND   MUSIC 


round  here  against  Tandy  since  he  shot  Ab 
Rankin." 

"Son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  still  with  his  eyes  on 
the  darkening  square  below,  "about  how  many 
of  them  jurors  would  you  say  are  old  soldiers?" 

"Four  or  five  that  I  know  of,"  said  High- 
tower  —  "and  maybe  more.  It's  hard  to  find 
a  man  over  fifty  years  old  in  this  section  that 
didn't  see  active  service  in  the  Big  War." 

"Ah,  hah,"  assented  Judge  Priest  with  a 
squeaky  little  grunt.  "That  foreman  now  — 
he  looked  like  he  might  of  seen  some  fightin'?" 

"Four  years  of  it,"  said  Hightower.  "He 
came  out  a  captain  in  the  cavalry." 

"Ah,  hah."    Judge  Priest  sucked  at  his  pipe. 

"Herman,"  he  wheezed  back  over  his 
shoulder  to  Felsburg,  "did  you  notice  a  tall 
sort  of  a  saddle-colored  darky  playing  a  juice 
harp  in  front  of  that  there  sideshow  as  we 
came  along  up?  I  reckon  that  nigger  could 
play  almost  any  tune  you'd  a  mind  to  hear  him 
play?" 

At  a  time  like  this  Durham  was  distinctly 
not  interested  in  the  versatilities  of  strange 
negroes  in  this  corner  of  the  world.  He  kept 
silent,  shrugging  his  shoulders  petulantly. 

"I  wonder  now  is  that  nigger  left  town  yet?" 
mused  the  old  judge  half  to  himself. 

"I  saw  him  just  a  while  ago  going  down 
toward  the  depot,"  volunteered  Hightower. 
"There's  a  train  out  of  here  for  Memphis  at 
8:50.  It's  about  twenty  minutes  of  that  now." 

[17] 


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"Ah,  hah,  jest  about,"  assented  the  judge. 
When  the  judge  said  "Ah,  hah!"  like  that  it 
sounded  like  the  striking  of  a  fiddle-bow  across 
a  fiddle's  tautened  E-string. 

"Well,  boys,"  he  went  on,  "we've  all  got  to 
do  the  best  we  can  for  Breck  Tandy,  ain't  we? 
Say,  son" — this  was  aimed  at  Durham — "I'd 
like  mightily  for  you  to  put  me  on  the  stand 
the  last  one  tomorrow.  You  wait  until  you're 
through  with  Herman  and  Colonel  Quigley 
here,  before  you  call  me.  And  if  I  should  seem 
to  ramble  somewhat  in  giving  my  testimony  — 
why,  son,  you  just  let  me  ramble,  will  you?  I 
know  these  people  down  here  better  maybe 
than  you  do  —  and  if  I  should  seem  inclined 
to  ramble,  just  let  me  go  ahead  and  don't  stop 
me,  please?" 

"Judge  Priest,"  said  Durham  tartly,  "if  you 
think  it  could  possibly  do  any  good,  ramble  all 
you  like." 

"Much  obliged,"  said  the  old  judge,  and  he 
struggled  into  his  low-quarter  shoes  and  stood 
up,  dusting  the  tobacco  fluff  off  himself. 

"Herman  have  you  got  any  loose  change 
about  you?" 

Felsburg  nodded  and  reached  into  his  pocket. 
The  judge  made  a  discriminating  selection  of 
silver  and  bills  from  the  handful  that  the 
merchant  extended  to  him  across  the  table. 

"I'll  take  about  ten  dollars,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  come  down  here  with  more  than  enough 
to  jest  about  buy  my  railroad  ticket  and  pay 

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WORDS   AND   MUSIC 


my  bill  at  this  here  tavern,  and  I  might  want 
a  sweetenin'  dram  or  somethin'." 

He  pouched  his  loan  and  crossed  the  room. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "I  think  I'll  be  knockin' 
round  a  little  before  I  turn  in.  Herman,  I  may 
stop  by  your  room  a  minute  as  I  come  back  in. 
You  boys  better  turn  in  early  and  git  your 
selves  a  good  night's  sleep.  We  are  all  liable 
to  be  purty  tolerable  busy  tomorrow." 

After  he  was  outside  he  put  his  head  back  in 
the  door  and  said  to  Durham : 

"Remember,  son,  I  may  ramble." 

Durham  nodded  shortly,  being  somewhat 
put  out  by  the  vagaries  of  a  mind  that  could 
concern  itself  with  trivial  things  on  the  immi 
nent  eve  of  a  crisis. 

As  the  judge  creaked  ponderously  along  the 
hall  and  down  the  stairs  those  he  had  left 
behind  heard  him  whistling  a  tune  to  himself, 
making  false  starts  at  the  air  and  halting  often 
to  correct  his  meter.  It  was  an  unknown  tune 
to  them  all,  but  to  Felsburg,  the  oldest  of  the, 
four,  it  brought  a  vague,  unplaced  memory. 

The  old  judge  was  whistling  when  he  reached 
the  street.  He  stood  there  a  minute  until  he 
had  mastered  the  tune  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
and  then,  still  whistling,  he  shuffled  along  the 
uneven  board  pavement,  which,  after  rippling 
up  and  down  like  a  broken-backed  snake,  dipped 
downward  to  a  little  railroad  station  at  the 
foot  of  the  street. 

[19] 


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In  the  morning  nearly  half  the  town  —  the 
white  half  —  came  to  the  trial,  and  enough  of 
the  black  half  to  put  a  dark  hem,  like  a  mourn 
ing  border,  across  the  back  width  of  the  court 
room.  Except  that  Main  Street  now  drowsed 
in  the  heat  where  yesterday  it  had  buzzed,  this 
day  might  have  been  the  day  before.  Again 
the  resolute  woodpecker  drove  his  bloodied 
head  with  unimpaired  energy  against  the  tin 
sheathing  up  above.  It  was  his  third  summer 
for  that  same  cupola  and  the  tin  was  pocked 
with  little  dents  for  three  feet  up  and  down. 
The  mourning  doves  still  pitched  their  lament 
ing  note  back  and  forth  across  the  courthouse 
yard;  and  in  the  dewberry  patch  at  the  bottom 
of  Aunt  Tilly  Haslett's  garden  down  by  the 
creek  the  meadow  larks  strutted  in  buff  and 
yellow,  with  crescent-shaped  gorgets  of  black 
at  their  throats,  like  Old  Continentals,  send 
ing  their  clear-piped  warning  of  "Laziness 
g'wine  kill  you!"  in  at  the  open  windows  of  the 
steamy,  smelly  courtroom. 

The  defense  lost  no  time  getting  under  head 
way.  As  his  main  witness  Durham  called  the 
prisoner  to  testify  in  his  own  behalf.  Tandy 
gave  his  version  of  the  killing  with  a  frankness 
and  directness  that  would  have  carried  con 
viction  to  auditors  more  even-minded  in  their 
sympathies.  He  had  gone  to  Rankin's  office 
in  the  hope  of  bringing  on  a  peaceful  settlement 
of  their  quarrel.  Rankin  had  flared  up;  had 
cursed  him  and  advanced  on  him,  making 

[20] 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


threats.  Both  of  them  reached  for  their  guns 
then.  Rankin's  was  the  first  out,  but  he  fired 
first  —  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  Gilliam 
shone  at  cross-examination;  he  went  at  Tandy 
savagely,  taking  hold  like  a  snapping  turtle 
and  hanging  on  like  one. 

He  made  Tandy  admit  over  and  over  again 
that  he  carried  a  pistol  habitually.  In  a  com 
munity  where  a  third  of  the  male  adult  popula 
tion  went  armed  this  admission  was  nevertheless 
taken  as  plain  evidence  of  a  nature  bloody- 
minded  and  desperate.  It  would  have  been 
just  as  bad  for  Tandy  if  he  said  he  armed  himself 
especially  for  his  visit  to  Rankin  —  to  these 
listeners  that  could  have  meant  nothing  else 
but  a  deliberate,  murderous  intention.  Either 
way  Gilliam  had  him,  and  he  sweated  in  his 
eagerness  to  bring  out  the  significance  of  the 
point.  A  sinister  little  murmuring  sound, 
vibrant  with  menace,  went  purring  from  bench 
to  bench  when  Tandy  told  about  his  pistol- 
carrying  habit. 

The  cross-examination  dragged  along  for 
hours.  The  recess  for  dinner  interrupted  it; 
then  it  went  on  again,  Gilliam  worrying  at 
Tandy,  goading  at  him,  catching  him  up  and 
twisting  his  words.  Tandy  would  not  be  shaken, 
but  twice  under  the  manhandling  he  lost  his 
temper  and  lashed  back  at  Gilliam,  which  was 
precisely  what  Gilliam  most  desired.  A  flary 
fiery  man,  prone  to  violent  outbursts  —  that  was 
the  inference  he  could  draw  from  these  blaze-ups. 

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It  was  getting  on  toward  five  o'clock  before 
Gilliam  finally  let  his  bedeviled  enemy  quit 
the  witness-stand  and  go  back  to  his  place 
between  his  wife  and  his  lawyer.  As  for  Dur 
ham,  he  had  little  more  to  offer.  He  called  on 
Mr.  Felsburg,  and  Mr.  Felsburg  gave  Tandy  a 
good  name  as  man  and  boy  in  his  home  town. 
He  called  on  Banker  Quigley,  who  did  the  same 
thing  in  different  words.  For  these  character 
witnesses  State's  Attorney  Gilliam  had  few 
questions.  The  case  was  as  good  as  won  now, 
he  figured;  he  could  taste  already  his  victory 
over  the  famous  lawyer  from  up  North,  and  he 
was  greedy  to  hurry  it  forward. 

The  hot  round  hub  of  a  sun  had  wheeled  low 
enough  to  dart  its  thin  red  spokes  in  through 
the  westerly  windows  when  Durham  called  his 
last  witness.  As  Judge  Priest  settled  himself 
solidly  in  the  witness  chair  with  the  deliberation 
of  age  and  the  heft  of  flesh,  the  leveled  rays 
caught  him  full  and  lit  up  his  round  pink  face, 
with  the  short  white-bleached  beard  below  it 
and  the  bald  white-bleached  forehead  above. 
Durham  eyed  him  half  doubtfully.  He  looked 
the  image  of  a  scatter-witted  old  man,  who 
would  potter  and  philander  round  a  long  time 
before  he  ever  came  to  the  point  of  anything. 
So  he  appeared  to  the  others  there,  too.  But 
what  Durham  did  not  sense  was  that  the  homely 
simplicity  of  the  old  man  was  of  a  piece  with  the 
picture  of  the  courtroom,  that  he  would  seem 
to  these  watching,  hostile  people  one  of  their 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


own  kind,  and  that  they  would  give  to  him  in 
all  likelihood  a  sympathy  and  understanding 
that  had  been  denied  the  clothing  merchant  and 
the  broadclothed  banker. 

He  wore  a  black  alpaca  coat  that  slanted  upon 
him  in  deep,  longitudinal  folds,  and  the  front 
skirts  of  it  were  twisted  and  pulled  downward 
until  they  dangled  in  long,  wrinkly  black 
teats.  His  shapeless  gray  trousers  were  short 
for  him  and  fitted  his  pudgy  legs  closely.  Below 
them  dangled  a  pair  of  stout  ankles  encased  in 
white  cotton  socks  and  ending  in  low-quarter 
black  shoes.  His  shirt  was  clean  but  wrinkled 
countlessly  over  his  front.  The  gnawed  and 
blackened  end  of  a  cane  pipestem  stood  out  of 
his  breast  pocket,  rising  like  a  frosted  weed  stalk. 

He  settled  himself  back  in  the  capacious  oak 
chair,  balanced  upon  his  knees  a  white  straw 
hat  with  a  string  band  round  the  crown  and 
waited  for  the  question. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Durham. 

"William  Pitman  Priest." 

Even  the  voice  somehow  seemed  to  fit  the 
setting.  Its  high  nasal  note  had  a  sort  of 
whimsical  appeal  to  it. 

"When  and  where  were  you  born?" 

"In  Galloway  County,  Kintucky,  July  27, 
1839." 

"What  is  your  profession  or  business?" 

"I  am  an  attorney-at-law." 

"What  position  if  any  do  you  hold  in  your 
native  state?" 

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"I  am  presidin'  judge  of  the  first  judicial 
district  of  the  state  of  Kintucky." 

"And  have  you  been  so  long?" 

"For  the  past  sixteen  years." 

"When  were  you  admitted  to  the  bar?" 

"In  1860." 

"  And  you  have  ever  since  been  engaged,  I  take 
it,  either  in  the  practice  of  the  law  before  the 
bar  or  in  its  administration  from  the  bench?" 

"Exceptin'  for  the  four  years  from  April, 
1861,  to  June,  1865." 

Up  until  now  Durham  had  been  sparring, 
trying  to  fathom  the  probable  trend  of  the  old 
judge's  expected  meanderings.  But  in  the 
answer  to  the  last  question  he  thought  he  caught 
the  cue  and,  though  none  save  those  two  knew 
it,  thereafter  it  was  the  witness  who  led  and  the 
questioner  who  followed  his  lead  blindly. 

"And  where  were  you  during  those  four 
years?" 

"I  was  engaged,  suh,  in  takin'  part  in  the 
war." 

"The  War  of  the  Rebellion?" 

"No,  suh,"  the  old  man  corrected  him  gently 
but  with  firmness,  "the  War  for  the  Southern 
Confederacy." 

There  was  a  least  bit  of  a  stir  at  this.  Aunt 
Tilly's  tape-edged  palmleaf  blade  hovered  a 
brief  second  in  the  wide  regular  arc  of  its  sweep 
and  the  foreman  of  the  jury  involuntarily 
ducked  his  head,  as  if  in  affiance  of  an  indubi 
table  fact. 

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WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


"Ahem!"  said  Durham,  still  feeling  his  way, 
although  now  he  saw  the  path  more  clearly. 
"And  on  which  side  were  you  engaged?" 

"I  was  a  private  soldier  in  the  Southern 
army,"  the  old  judge  answered  him,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  straightened  up. 

"Yes,  suh,"  he  repeated,  "for  four  years  I 
was  a  private  soldier  in  the  late  Southern  Con 
federacy.  Part  of  the  time  I  was  down  here 
in  this  very  country,"  he  went  on  as  though 
he  had  just  recalled  that  part  of  it.  "Why,  in 
the  summer  of  '64  I  was  right  here  in  this 
town.  And  until  yistiddy  I  hadn't  been  back 
since." 

He  turned  to  the  trial  judge  and  spoke  to  him 
with  a  tone  and  manner  half  apologetic,  half 
confidential. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  judge  my 
self,  occupyin'  in  my  home  state  a  position  very 
similar  to  the  one  which  you  fill  here,  and  whilst 
I  realize,  none  better,  that  this  ain't  all  accordin' 
to  the  rules  of  evidence  as  laid  down  in  the 
books,  yet  when  I  git  to  thinkin'  about  them 
old  soldierin'  times  I  find  I  am  inclined  to  sort 
of  reminiscence  round  a  little.  And  I  trust 
your  Honor  will  pardon  me  if  I  should  seem  to 
ramble  slightly?" 

His  tone  was  more  than  apologetic  and  more 
than  confidential.  It  was  winning.  The  judge 
upon  the  bench  was  a  veteran  himself.  He 
looked  toward  the  prosecutor. 

"Has  the  state's  attorney  any  objection  to 

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this  line  of  testimony?"  he  asked,  smiling  a 
little. 

Certainly  Gilliam  had  no  fear  that  this  honest- 
appearing  old  man's  wanderings  could  damage 
a  case  already  as  good  as  won.  He  smiled 
back  indulgently  and  waved  his  arm  with  a 
gesture  that  was  compounded  of  equal  parts  of 
toleration  and  patience,  with  a  top-dressing 
of  contempt.  "I  fail,"  said  Gilliam,  "to  see 
wherein  the  military  history  and  achievements 
of  this  worthy  gentleman  can  possibly  affect 
the  issue  of  the  homicide  of  Abner  J.  Rankin. 
But,"  he  added  magnanimously,  "if  the  defense 
chooses  to  encumber  the  record  with  matters 
so  trifling  and  irrelevant  I  surely  will  make  no 
objection  now  or  hereafter." 

"The  witness  may  proceed,"  said  the  judge. 

"Well,  really,  Your  Honor,  I  didn't  have  so 
very  much  to  say,"  confessed  Judge  Priest, 
"and  I  didn't  expect  there'd  be  any  to-do  made 
over  it.  What  I  was  trying  to  git  at  was  that 
comin'  down  here  to  testify  in  this  case  sort  of 
brought  back  them  old  days  to  my  mind.  As 
I  git  along  more  in  years  —  "  he  was  looking 
toward  the  jurors  now — "I  find  that  I  live 
more  and  more  in  the  past." 

As  though  he  had  put  a  question  to  them 
several  of  the  jurors  gravely  inclined  their 
heads.  The  busy  cud  of  Juror  No.  12  moved 
just  a  trifle  slower  in  its  travels  from  the  right 
side  of  the  jaw  to  the  left  and  back  again. 

"Yes,  suh,"  he  said  musingly,  "I  got  up  early 

[26] 


WORDS   AND   MUSIC 


this  mornin'  at  the  tavern  where  I'm  stoppin* 
and  took  a  walk  through  your  thrivin'  little 
city."  This  was  rambling  with  a  vengeance, 
thought  the  puzzled  Durham.  "  I  walked  down 
here  to  a  bridge  over  a  little  creek  and  back 
again.  It  reminded  me  mightily  of  that  other 
time  when  I  passed  through  this  town  —  in  '64 
—  just  about  this  season  of  the  year  —  and 
it  was  hot  early  today  just  as  it  was  that  other 
time  —  and  the  dew  was  thick  on  the  grass, 
the  same  as  'twas  then." 

He  halted  a  moment. 

"Of  course  your  town  didn't  look  the  same 
this  mornin'  as  it  did  that  other  mornin'.  It 
seemed  like  to  me  there  are  twicet  as  many 
houses  here  now  as  there  used  to  be  —  it's  got 
to  be  quite  a  little  city." 

Mr.  Lukins,  the  grocer,  nodded  silent  ap 
proval  of  this  utterance,  Mr.  Lukins  having  but 
newly  completed  and  moved  into  a  two-story 
brick  store  building  with  a  tin  cornice  and  an 
outside  staircase. 

"Yes,  suh,  your  town  has  grown  mightily, 
but"  —  and  the  whiny,  humorous  voice  grew 
apologetic  again  —  "but  your  roads  are  purty 
much  the  same  as  they  were  in  '64  —  hilly 
in  places  —  and  kind  of  rocky." 

Durham  found  himself  sitting  still,  listening 
hard.  Everybody  else  was  listening  too.  Sud 
denly  it  struck  Durham,  almost  like  a  blow, 
that  this  simple  old  man  had  somehow  laid  a 
sort  of  spell  upon  them  all.  The  flattening 

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sunrays  made  a  kind  of  pink  glow  about  the  old 
judge's  face,  touching  gently  his  bald  head  and 
his  white  whiskers.  He  droned  on: 

"I  remember  about  those  roads  particularly 
well,  because  that  time  when  I  marched  through 
here  in  '64  my  feet  was  about  out  of  my  shoes 
and  them  flints  cut  'em  up  some.  Some  of  the 
boys,  I  recollect,  left  bloody  prints  in  the  dust 
behind  'em.  But  shucks  —  it  wouldn't  a-made 
no  real  difference  if  we'd  wore  the  bottoms 
plum  off  our  feet!  We'd  a-kept  on  goin'. 
We'd  a-gone  anywhere  —  or  tried  to  —  behind 
old  Bedford  Forrest." 

Aunt  Tilly's  palmleaf  halted  in  air  and  the 
twelfth  juror's  faithful  quid  froze  in  his  cheek 
and  stuck  there  like  a  small  wen.  Except  for 
a  general  hunching  forward  of  shoulders  and 
heads  there  was  no  movement  anywhere  and 
no  sound  except  the  voice  of  the  witness : 

"Old  Bedford  Forrest  hisself  was  leadin* 
us,  and  so  naturally  we  just  went  along  with 
him,  shoes  or  no  shoes.  There  was  a  regiment 
of  Northern  troops  —  Yankees  —  marchin'  on 
this  town  that  mornin',  and  it  seemed  the  word 
had  traveled  ahead  of  'em  that  they  was  aimin' 
to  burn  it  down. 

"Probably  it  wasn't  true.  When  we  got 
to  know  them  Yankees  better  afterward  we 
found  out  that  there  really  wasn't  no  difference, 
to  speak  of,  between  the  run  of  us  and  the  run 
of  them.  Probably  it  wasn't  so  at  all.  But 
in  them  days  the  people  was  prone  to  believe 

[28] 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


'most  anything  —  about  Yankees  —  and  the 
word  was  that  they  was  comin'  across  country, 
a-burnin'  and  cuttin'  and  slashin,'  and  the 
people  here  thought  they  was  going  to  be  burned 
out  of  house  and  home.  So  old  Bedford  Forrest 
he  marched  all  night  with  a  battalion  of  us  — 
four  companies  —  Kintuckians  and  Tennes- 
seeans  mostly,  with  a  sprinklin'  of  boys  from 
Mississippi  and  Arkansas  —  some  of  us  ridin' 
and  some  walkin'  afoot,  like  me  —  we  didn't 
always  have  horses  enough  to  go  round  that 
last  year.  And  somehow  we  got  here  before 
they  did.  It  was  a  close  race  though  between 
us  —  them  a-comin'  down  from  the  North  and 
us  a-comin'  up  from  the  other  way.  We  met 
'em  down  there  by  that  little  branch  just  below 
where  your  present  railroad  depot  is.  There 
wasn't  no  depot  there  then,  but  the  branch 
looks  just  the  same  now  as  it  did  then  —  and 
the  bridge  too.  I  walked  acros't  it  this  mornin' 
to  see.  Yes,  suh,  right  there  was  where  we 
met  'em.  And  there  was  a  right  smart  fight. 

"Yes,  suh,  there  was  a  right  smart  fight  for 
about  twenty  minutes  —  or  maybe  twenty- 
five  —  and  then  we  had  breakfast." 

He  had  been  smiling  gently  as  he  went  along. 
Now  he  broke  into  a  throaty  little  chuckle. 

"Yes,  suh,  it  all  come  back  to  me  this  mornin' 
—  every  little  bit  of  it  —  the  breakfast  and  all. 
I  didn't  have  much  breakfast,  though,  as  I 
recall  —  none  of  us  did  —  probably  just  corn 
pone  and  branch  water  to  wash  it  down  with." 

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And  he  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand  as  though  the  taste  of  the  gritty  cornmeal 
cakes  was  still  there. 

There  was  another  little  pause  here;  the 
witness  seemed  to  be  through.  Durham's 
crisp  question  cut  the  silence  like  a  gash  with  a 
knife. 

"Judge  Priest,  do  you  know  the  defendant 
at  the  bar,  and  if  so,  how  well  do  you  know 
him?" 

"I  was  just  comin'  to  that,"  he  answered 
with  simplicity,  "and  I'm  obliged  to  you  for 
puttin'  me  back  on  the  track.  Oh,  I  know  the 
defendant  at  the  bar  mighty  well  —  as  well  as 
anybody  on  earth  ever  did  know  him,  I  reckin, 
unless  'twas  his  own  maw  and  paw.  I've 
known  him,  in  fact,  from  the  time  he  was  born 

—  and   a  gentler,   better-disposed   boy   never 
grew  up  in  our  town.     His  nature  seemed  almost 
too  sweet  for  a  boy  —  more  like  a  girl's  —  but 
as  a  grown  man  he  was  always  manly,  and  honest, 
and  fair  —  and  not  quarrelsome.     Oh,  yes,  I 
know  him.     I  knew  his  father  and  his  mother 
before  him.     It's  a  funny  thing  too  —  comin' 
up  this  way  —  but  I  remember  that  his  paw  was 
marchin'  right  alongside  of  me  the  day  we  came 
through  here  in  '64.      He  was  wounded,  his 
paw  was,  right  at  the  edge  of  that  little  creek 
down  yonder.     He  was  wounded  in  the  shoulder 

—  and  he  never  did  entirely  git  over  it." 
Again  he  stopped  dead  short,  and  he  lifted 

his  hand  and  tugged  at  the  lobe  of  his  right 

[30] 


WORDS    AND   MUSIC 


ear  absently.  Simultaneously  Mr.  Felsburg, 
who  was  sitting  close  to  a  window  beyond  the 
jury  box,  was  also  seized  with  nervousness, 
for  he  jerked  out  a  handkerchief  and  with  it 
mopped  his  brow  so  vigorously  that,  to  one 
standing  outside,  it  might  have  seemed  that 
the  handkerchief  was  actually  being  waved 
about  as  a  signal. 

Instantly  then  there  broke  upon  the  pause 
that  still  endured  a  sudden  burst  of  music, 
a  rollicking,  jingling  air.  It  was  only  a  twenty- 
cent  mouth  organ,  three  sleigh  bells,  and  a  pair 
of  the  rib  bones  of  a  beef-cow  being  played  all 
at  once  by  a  saddle-colored  negro  man  but 
it  sounded  for  all  the  world  like  a  fife-and-drum 

corps: 

//  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 

If  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
If  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
If  you  want  to  ketch  the  devil  — 
Jine  the  cavalreel 

To  some  who  heard  it  now  the  tune  was 
strange;  these  were  the  younger  ones.  But 
to  those  older  men  and  those  older  women 
the  first  jubilant  bars  rolled  back  the  years 
like  a  scroll. 

//  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
If  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
If  you  want  to  have  a  good  time, 
If  you  want  to  ride  with  Bedford  — 
Jine  the  cavalree ! 

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The  sound  swelled  and  rippled  and  rose 
through  the  windows  —  the  marching  song 
of  the  Southern  trooper  —  Forrest's  men,  and 
Morgan's,  and  Jeb  Stuart's  and  Joe  Wheeler's. 
It  had  in  it  the  jingle  of  saber  chains,  the  creak 
of  sweaty  saddle-girths,  the  nimble  clunk  of 
hurrying  hoofs.  It  had  in  it  the  clanging 
memories  of  a  cause  and  a  time  that  would 
live  with  these  people  as  long  as  they  lived 
and  their  children  lived  and  their  children's 
children.  It  had  in  it  the  one  sure  call  to  the 
emotions  and  the  sentiments  of  these  people. 

And  it  rose  and  rose  and  then  as  the  unseen 
minstrel  went  slouching  down  Main  Street, 
toward  the  depot  and  the  creek  it  sank  lower 
and  became  a  thin  thread  of  sound  and  then 
a  broken  thread  of  sound  and  then  it  died  out 
altogether  and  once  more  there  was  silence  in 
the  court  house  of  Forked  Deer  County. 

Strangely  enough  not  one  listener  had  come 
to  the  windows  to  look  out.  The  interruption 
from  without  had  seemed  part  and  parcel  of 
what  went  on  within.  None  faced  to  the 
rear,  every  one  faced  to  the  front. 

There  was  Mr.  Lukins  now.  As  Mr.  Lukins 
got  upon  his  feet  he  said  to  himself  in  a  tone 
of  feeling  that  he  be  dad-fetched.  But  im 
mediately  changing  his  mind  he  stated  that  he 
would  preferably  be  dad-blamed,  and  as  he 
moved  toward  the  bar  rail  one  overhearing 
him  might  have  gathered  from  remarks  let 
fall  that  Mr.  Lukins  was  going  somewhere 

[32] 


THE    SOUND    SWELLED    AND    RIPPLED    AND    ROSE 
THE    MARCHING  SONG    OF    FORREST'S    MEN. 


WORDS    AND    MUSIC 


with  the  intention  of  being  extensively  dad- 
burned.  But  for  all  these  threats  Mr.  Lukins 
didn't  go  anywhere,  except  as  near  the  railing 
as  he  could  press. 

Nearly  everybody  else  was  standing  up 
too.  The  state's  attorney  was  on  his  feet 
with  the  rest,  seemingly  for  the  purpose  of 
making  some  protest. 

Had  any  one  looked  they  might  have  seen 
that  the  ember  in  the  smoldering  eye  of  the 
old  foreman  had  blazed  up  to  a  brown  fire; 
that  Juror  No.  4,  with  utter  disregard  for 
expense,  was  biting  segments  out  of  the  brim 
of  his  new  brown -varnished  straw  hat;  that 
No.  7  had  dropped  his  crutches  on  the  floor, 
and  that  no  one,  not  even  their  owner,  had 
heard  them  fall;  that  all  the  jurors  were  half 
out  of  their  chairs.  But  no  one  saw  these 
things,  for  at  this  moment  there  rose  up  Aunt 
Tilly  Haslett,  a  dominant  figure,  her  huge  wide 
back  blocking  the  view  of  three  or  four  im 
mediately  behind  her. 

Uncle  Fayette  laid  a  timid  detaining  hand 
upon  her  and  seemed  to  be  saying  something 
protestingly. 

"Turn  loose  of  me,  Fate  Haslett!"  she 
commanded.  "Ain't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
se'f,  to  be  tryin'  to  hold  me  back  when  you 
know  how  my  only  dear  brother  died  a-followin* 
after  Gineral  Nathan  Bedford  Forrest.  Turn 
loose  of  me!" 

She  flirted  her  great  arm  and  Uncle  Fayette 

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spun  flutteringly  into  the  mass  behind.  The 
sheriff  barred  her  way  at  the  gate  of  the  bar. 

"Mizz  Haslett,"  he  implored,  "please,  Mizz 
Haslett  —  you  must  keep  order  in  the  cote." 

Aunt  Tilly  halted  in  her  onward  move, 
head  up  high  and  elbows  out,  and  through 
her  specs,  blazing  like  burning-glasses,  she 
fixed  on  him  a  look  that  instantly  charred  that 
unhappy  official  into  a  burning  red  ruin  of  his 
own  self-importance. 

"Keep  it  yourse'f,  High  Sheriff  Washing 
ton  Nash,  Esquire,"  she  bade  him;  "that's 
whut  you  git  paid  good  money  for  doin'. 
And  git  out  of  my  way!  I'm  a-goin'  in  there 
to  that  pore  little  lonesome  thing  settin'  there 
all  by  herself,  and  there  ain't  nobody  goin' 
to  hinder  me  neither!" 

The  sheriff  shrunk  aside;  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  to  say  he  evaporated  aside.  And 
public  opinion,  reorganized  and  made  over 
but  still  incarnate  in  Aunt  Tilly  Haslett,  swept 
past  the  rail  and  settled  like  a  billowing  black 
cloud  into  a  chair  that  the  local  attorney  for 
the  defense  vacated  just  in  time  to  save  himself 
the  inconvenience  of  having  it  snatched  bodily 
from  under  him. 

"There,  honey,"  said  Aunt  Tilly  crooningly 
as  she  gathered  the  forlorn  little  figure  of  the 
prisoner's  wife  in  her  arms  like  a  child  and 
mothered  her  up  to  her  ample  bombazined 
bosom,  "there  now,  honey,  you  jest  cry  on 
me." 

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Then  Aunt  Tilly  looked  up  and  her  specs 
were  all  blurry  and  wet.  But  she  waved  her 
palmleaf  fan  as  though  it  had  been  the  baton 
of  a  marshal. 

"Now,  Jedge,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
bench,  "and  you  other  gentlemen  —  you  kin 
go  ahead  now." 

The  state's  attorney  had  meant  evidently 
to  make  some  sort  of  an  objection,  for  he  was 
upon  his  feet  through  all  this  scene.  But  he 
looked  back  before  he  spoke  and  what  he  saw 
kept  him  from  speaking.  I  believe  I  stated 
earlier  that  he  was  a  candidate  for  reelection. 
So  he  settled  back  down  in  his  chair  and 
stretched  out  his  legs  and  buried  his  chin  in  the 
top  of  his  limp  white  waistcoat  in  an  attitude 
that  he  had  once  seen  in  a  picture  entitled, 
"Napoleon  Bonaparte  at  St.  Helena." 

"You  may  resume,  Judge  Priest,"  said  the 
trial  judge  in  a  voice  that  was  not  entirely 
free  from  huskiness,  although  its  owner  had 
been  clearing  it  steadily  for  some  moments. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  suh,  but  I  was  about 
through  anyhow,"  answered  the  witness  with 
a  bow,  and  for  all  his  homeliness  there  was 
dignity  and  stateliness  in  it.  "I  merely  wanted 
to  say  for  the  sake  of  completin'  the  record, 
so  to  speak,  that  on  the  occasion  referred  to 
them  Yankees  did  not  cross  that  bridge." 

With  the  air  of  tendering  and  receiving  con 
gratulations  Mr.  Lukins  turned  to  his  nearest 
neighbor  and  shook  hands  with  him  warmly. 

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The  witness  got  up  somewhat  stiffly,  once 
more  becoming  a  commonplace  old  man  in  a 
wrinkled  black  alpaca  coat,  and  made  his 
way  back  to  his  vacant  place,  now  in  the  shadow 
of  Aunt  Tilly  Haslett's  form.  As  he  passed 
along  the  front  of  the  jury-box  the  foreman's 
crippled  right  hand  came  up  in  a  sort  of  a 
clumsy  salute,  and  the  juror  at  the  other  end 
of  the  rear  row  —  No.  12,  the  oldest  juror  — 
leaned  forward  as  if  to  speak  to  him,  but 
remembered  in  time  where  his  present  duty 
lay.  The  old  judge  kept  on  until  he  came  to 
Durham's  side,  and  he  whispered  to  him: 

"Son,  they've  quit  lookin'  at  him  and  they're 
all  a-lookin'  at  her.  Son,  rest  your  case." 

Durham  came  out  of  a  maze. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said  as  he  rose,  "the 
defense  rests." 

The  jury  were  out  only  six  minutes.  Mr. 
Lukins  insisted  that  it  was  only  five  minutes 
and  a  half,  and  added  that  he'd  be  dad-rotted 
if  it  was  a  second  longer  than  that. 

As  the  lately  accused  Tandy  came  out  of 
the  courthouse  with  his  imported  lawyer  — 
Aunt  Tilly  bringing  up  the  rear  with  his  tremb 
ling,  weeping,  happy  little  wife  —  friendly 
hands  were  outstretched  to  clasp  his  and  a 
whiskered  old  gentleman  with  a  thumbnail 
like  a  Brazil  nut  grabbed  at  his  arm. 

"Whichaway  did  Billy  Priest  go?"  he 
demanded  —  "little  old  Fightin'  Billy  —  whar 

[36] 


WORDS   AND   MUSIC 


did  he  go  to?  Soon  as  he  started  in  talkin'  I 
placed  him.  Whar  is  he?" 

Walking  side  by  side,  Tandy  and  Durham 
came  down  the  steps  into  the  soft  June  night, 
and  Tandy  took  a  long,  deep  breath  into  his 
lungs. 

"Mr.  Durham,"  he  said,  "I  owe  a  great 
deal  to  you." 

"How's  that?"  said  Durham. 

Just  ahead  of  them,  centered  in  a  shaft  of 
light  from  the  window  of  the  barroom  of  the 
Drummers'  Home  Hotel,  stood  Judge  Priest. 
The  old  judge  had  been  drinking.  The  pink 
of  his  face  was  a  trifle  more  pronounced,  the 
high  whine  in  his  voice  a  trifle  weedier,  as  he 
counted  one  by  one  certain  pieces  of  silver  into 
the  wide-open  palm  of  a  saddle-colored  negro. 

"How's  that?"  said  Durham. 

"I  say  I  owe  everything  in  the  world  to 
you,"  repeated  Tandy. 

"No,"  said  Durham,  "what  you  owe  me 
is  the  fee  you  agreed  to  pay  me  for  defend 
ing  you.  There's  the  man  you're  looking  for." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  old  judge. 


[37J 


II 

THE  COUNTY  TROT 


SATURDAY   was   the   last   day   of   the 
county  fair  and  the  day  of  the  County 
Trot.     It  was  also  Veterans'  Day,  when 
the  old  soldiers  were  the  guests  of  honor 
of  the  management,  and  likewise  Ladies'  Day, 
which  meant  that  all  white  females  of  what 
ever   age   were   admitted   free.     So   naturally, 
in  view  of  all  these  things,  the  biggest  day  of 
fair  week  was  Saturday. 

The  fair  grounds  lay  in  a  hickory  flat  a  mile 
out  of  town,  and  the  tall  scaly  barks  grew  so 
close  to  the  fence  that  they  poked  their  limbs 
over  its  top  and  shed  down  nuts  upon  the  track. 
The  fence  had  been  whitewashed  once,  back 
in  the  days  of  its  youth  when  Hector  was  a 
pup;  but  Hec  was  an  old  dog  now  and  the  rains 
of  years  had  washed  the  fence  to  a  misty  gray, 
so  that  in  the  dusk  the  long,  warped  panels 
stood  up  in  rows,  palely  luminous  —  like  the 
highshouldered  ghosts  of  a  fence.  And  the 
rust  had  run  down  from  the  eaten-out  nail- 
holes  until  each  plank  had  two  staring  marks 

[38] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


in  its  face  —  like  rheumy,  bleared  eyes.  The 
ancient  grandstand  was  of  wood  too,  and  had 
lain  outdoors  in  all  weathers  until  its  rheumatic 
rafters  groaned  and  creaked  when  the  wind 
blew. 

Back  of  the  grandstand  stood  Floral  Hall 
and  Agricultural  Hall.  Except  for  their  names 
and  their  flagstaffs  you  might  have  taken  them 
for  two  rather  hastily  built  and  long-neglected 
barns.  Up  the  track  to  the  north  were  the 
rows  of  stables  that  were  empty,  odorous  little 
cubicles  for  fifty-one  weeks  of  the  year,  but 
now —  for  this  one  week  —  alive  with  darky 
stable  hands  and  horses;  and  all  the  good 
savors  of  woodfires,  clean  hay,  and  turned-up 
turf  were  commingled  there. 

The  fair  had  ideal  weather  for  its  windup. 
No  frost  had  fallen  yet,  but  in  the  air  there 
were  signs  and  portents  of  its  coming.  The 
long  yellow  leaves  of  the  hickories  had  begun 
to  curl  up  as  if  to  hold  the  dying  warmth  of  the 
sap  to  the  last;  and  once  in  a  while  an  ash 
flamed  red  like  a  signal  fire  to  give  warning  for 
Indian  summer,  when  all  the  woods  would 
blaze  in  warpaints  before  huddling  down  for 
the  winter  under  their  tufted,  ragged  tawnies 
and  browns  —  like  buffalo  robes  on  the  shoulders 
of  chilled  warriors.  The  first  flights  of  the 
wild  geese  were  going  over,  their  V's  pointed 
to  the  Gulf;  and  that  huckstering  little  bird 
of  the  dead  treetops,  which  the  negroes  call 
the  sweet-potato  bird  —  maybe  it's  a  pewee, 

[39] 


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with  an  acquired  Southern  accent  —  was  calling 
his  mythical  wares  at  the  front  door  of  every 
woodpecker's  hole.  The  woods  were  perfumy 
with  ripening  wild  grapes  and  pawpaws,  and 
from  the  orchards  came  rich  winy  smells  where 
the  windfalls  lay  in  heaps  and  cider  mills  gushed 
under  the  trees;  and  on  the  roof  of  the  smoke 
house  the  pared,  sliced  fruit  was  drying  out 
yellow  and  leathery  in  the  sun  and  looking  — 
a  little  way  off  —  like  countless  ears  all  turned 
to  listen  for  the  same  thing. 

Saturday,  by  sunup,  the  fair  grounds  were 
astir.  Undershirted  concessionaries  and  privi 
lege  people  emerged  from  their  canvas  sleeping 
quarters  to  sniff  at  a  tantalizing  smell  that 
floated  across  to  them  from  certain  narrow 
trenches  dug  in  the  ground.  That  smell,  just 
by  itself,  was  one  square  meal  and  an  incentive 
to  another;  for  these  trenches  were  full  of  live 
red  hickory  coals;  and  above  them,  on  green 
wood  stakes  that  were  stretched  across,  a  shoat 
and  a  whole  sheep,  and  a  rosary  of  young 
squirrels  impaled  in  a  string,  had  been  all  night 
barbecuing.  Uncle  Isom  Woolfolk  was  in 
charge  here  —  mightily  and  solely  in  charge  — 
Uncle  Isom  Woolfolk,  no  less,  official  purveyor 
to  the  whole  county  at  fish  fries  or  camp  break 
fasts,  secretary  of  the  Republican  County 
Committee,  high  in  his  church  and  his  lodges 
and  the  best  barbecue  cook  in  seven  states. 
He  bellowed  frequent  and  contradictory  orders 
to  two  negro  women  of  his  household  who  were 

[40] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


arranging  clean  white  clothes  on  board  trestles; 
and  constantly  he  went  from  shoat  to  sheep 
and  from  sheep  to  squirrels,  basting  them  with 
a  rag  wrapped  about  a  stick  and  dipped  into  a 
potent  sauce  of  his  own  private  making.  Red 
pepper  and  sweet  vinegar  were  two  of  its  main 
constituents,  though,  and  in  turn  he  painted 
each  carcass  as  daintily  as  an  artist  retouching 
the  miniature  of  his  lady  fair,  so  that  under 
his  hand  the  crackling  meatskins  sizzled  and 
smoked,  and  a  yellowish  glaze  like  a  veneer 
spread  over  their  surfaces.  His  white  chin- 
beard  waggled  with  importance  and  the  artistic 
temperament. 

Before  Uncle  Isom  had  his  barbecue  off  the 
fire  the  crowds  were  pouring  in,  coming  from 
the  town  afoot,  and  in  buggies  and  hacks,  and 
from  the  country  in  farm  wagons  that  held 
families,  from  grandsire  to  baby  in  arms,  all 
riding  in  kitchen  chairs,  with  bedquilt  lap 
robes.  At  noon  a  thin  trickle  of  martial  music 
came  down  the  pike;  and  pretty  soon  then  the 
veterans,  forty  or  fifty  of  them,  marched  in, 
two  by  two,  some  in  their  reunion  gray  and 
some  in  their  best  Sunday  blacks.  At  the 
head  of  the  limping  line  of  old  men  was  a  fife- 
and-drum  corps  —  two  sons  of  veterans  at 
the  drums  and  Corporal  Harrison  Treese, 
sometime  bugler  of  Terry's  Cavalry,  with  his 
fife  half  buried  in  his  whiskers,  ripping  the  high 
notes  out  of  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me.  Near 
the  tail  of  the  procession  was  Sergeant  Jimmy 

[41] 


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Bagby,  late  of  King's  Hellhounds.  Back  in  war 
times  that  organization  had  borne  a  more 
official  and  a  less  sanguinary  title;  but  you 
would  never  have  guessed  this,  overhearing 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby 's  conversation. 

The  sergeant  wore  a  little  skirtless  jacket, 
absurdly  high-collared,  faded  to  all  colors  and 
falling  to  pieces  with  age.  Three  tarnished 
buttons  and  a  rag  of  rotted  braid  still  clung  to 
its  front.  Probably  it  had  fitted  the  sergeant 
well  in  the  days  when  he  was  a  slim  and  limber 
young  partisan  ranger;  but  now  the  peaked 
little  tail  showed  halfway  up  his  back  where 
his  suspenders  forked,  and  his  white-shirted 
paunch  jutted  out  in  front  like  a  big  cotton 
pod  bursting  out  of  a  gray -brown  boll.  The 
sergeant  wore  his  jacket  on  all  occasions  of 
high  military  and  civic  state  —  that,  and  a 
gangrened  leather  cartridge-box  bouncing  up 
and  down  on  his  plump  hip  —  and  over  his 
shoulder  the  musket  he  had  carried  to  war  and 
back  home  again,  an  ancient  Springfield  with 
a  stock  like  a  log  butt  and  a  hammer  like  a 
mule's  ear,  its  barrel  merely  a  streak  of  rust. 

He  walked  side  by  side  with  his  closest 
personal  friend  and  bitterest  political  foe, 
Major  Ashcroft,  late  of  the  Ninth  Michigan 
Volunteers  —  walking  so  close  to  him  that 
the  button  of  the  Loyal  Legion  in  the  major's 
left-hand  lapel  almost  touched  the  bronze 
Southern  Cross  pinned  high  up  on  the  right 
breast  of  the  sergeant's  flaring  jacket. 

[42J 


THE     COUNTY     TROT 


From  time  to  time  the  sergeant,  addressing 
the  comrades  ahead  of  him,  would  poke  the 
major  in  the  side  and  call  out: 

"Boys,  I've  took  the  first  prisoner  —  this 
here  pizen  Yank  is  my  meat!" 

And  the  imperturbable  major  would  in 
variably  retort: 

"Yes,  and  along  about  dark  the  prisoner  will 
have  to  be  loading  you  into  a  hack  and  sending 
you  home  —  the  same  as  he  always  does." 

Thereupon  a  cackling  laugh  would  run  up 
the  double  line  from  its  foot  to  its  head. 

The  local  band,  up  in  its  coop  on  the  warped 
gray  roof  of  the  grandstand,  blared  out  Dixie, 
and  the  crowd  cheered  louder  than  ever  as  the 
uneven  column  of  old  soldiers  swung  stiffly 
down  the  walkway  fronting  the  grandstand 
and  halted  at  the  word  —  and  then,  at  another 
word,  disbanded  and  melted  away  into  individ 
uals  and  groups.  Soon  the  veterans,  with  their 
womenf  oiks,  were  scattered  all  over  the  grounds, 
elbowing  a  way  through  the  narrow  aisles  of 
Floral  Hall  to  see  the  oil  paintings  and  the 
prize  cakes  and  preserves,  and  the  different 
patterns  of  home-made  rag  quilts  —  Hen-and- 
Chickens  and  Lone  Star  and  Log  Cabin  —  or 
crowding  about  the  showpens  where  young 
calves  lowed  vainly  for  parental  attention  and 
a  Berkshire  boar,  so  long  of  body  and  so  vast 
of  bulk  that  he  only  needed  to  shed  his  legs  to 
be  a  captive  balloon,  was  shoving  his  snout 
through  a  crack  in  his  pen  and  begging  for 

[43] 


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goodies.  And  in  Agricultural  Hall  were  water 
melons  like  green  boulders,  and  stalks  of  corn 
fourteen  feet  long,  and  saffron  blades  of  prize- 
winning  tobacco,  and  families  of  chickens  un 
happily  domiciled  in  wooden  coops.  The  bray 
of  sideshow  barkers,  and  the  squeak  of  toy 
balloons,  and  the  barnyard  sounds  from  the 
tied-up,  penned-up  farm  creatures,  went  up  to 
the  treetops  in  a  medley  that  drove  the  birds 
scurrying  over  the  fence  and  into  the  quieter 
woods.  And  in  every  handy  spot  under  a  tree 
basket  dinners  were  spread,  and  family  groups 
ate  cold  fried  chicken  and  lemon  meringue  pie, 
picnic  fashion,  upon  the  grass. 

In  the  middle  of  this  a  cracked  bugle  sounded 
and  there  was  a  rush  to  the  grandstand.  Almost 
instantly  its  rattling  gray  boards  clamored 
under  the  heels  of  a  multitude.  About  the 
stall  of  the  one  lone  bookmaker  a  small  crowd, 
made  up  altogether  of  men,  eddied  and  swirled. 
There  were  men  in  that  group,  strict  church 
members,  who  would  not  touch  a  playing  card 
or  a  fiddle  —  playthings  of  the  devil  by  the 
word  of  their  strict  orthodoxy;  who  wouldn't 
let  their  children  dance  any  dance  except  a 
square  dance  or  go  to  any  parties  except  play 
parties,  and  some  of  them  had  never  seen  the 
inside  of  a  theater  or  a  circus  tent.  But  they 
came  each  year  to  the  county  fair;  and  if  they 
bet  on  the  horses  it  was  their  own  private 
affair. 

So,  at  the  blare  of  that  leaky  bugle,  Floral 

[44J 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


Hall  and  the  cattlepens  were  on  the  moment 
deserted  and  lonely.  The  Berkshire  boar  re 
turned  to  his  wallow,  and  a  young  Jersey 
bullock,  with  a  warm  red  coat  and  a  temper  of 
the  same  shade,  was  left  shaking  his  head  and 
snorting  angrily  as  he  tried  vainly  to  dislodge 
a  blue  ribbon  that  was  knotted  about  one  of 
his  short,  curving  black  horns.  Had  he  been 
a  second  prizewinner  instead  of  a  first,  that 
ribbon  would  have  been  a  red  ribbon  and  there 
is  no  telling  what  might  have  happened. 

The  first  race  was  a  half-mile  dash  for  run 
ning  horses.  There  were  four  horses  entered 
for  it  and  three  of  the  four  jockeys  wore  regular 
jockey  outfits,  with  loose  blouses  and  top  boots 
and  long-peaked  caps;  but  the  fourth  jockey 
was  an  imp-black  stable  boy,  wearing  a  cotton 
shirt  and  the  ruins  of  an  old  pair  of  pants.  The 
brimless  wreck  of  a  straw  hat  was  clamped 
down  tight  on  his  wool  like  a  cup.  He  be- 
straddled  a  sweaty  little  red  gelding  named 
Flitterfoot,  and  Flitterfoot  was  the  only  local 
entry,  and  was  an  added  starter,  and  a  forlorn 
hope  in  the  betting. 

While  these  four  running  horses  were  dancing 
a  fretful  schottische  round  at  the  half-mile 
post,  and  the  starter,  old  man  Thad  Jacobson, 
was  bellowing  at  the  riders  and  slashing  a  black- 
snake  whip  round  the  shins  of  their  impatient 
mounts,  a  slim  black  figure  wormed  a  way  under 
the  arms  and  past  the  short  ribs  of  a  few  belated 
betters  yet  lingering  about  the  bookmaker's 

[451 


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block.  This  intruder  handled  himself  so  deftly 
and  so  nimbly  as  not  to  jostle  by  one  hair's 
breadth  the  dignity  of  any  white  gentleman 
there  present,  yet  was  steadily  making  progress 
all  the  while  and  in  ample  time  getting  down  a 
certain  sum  of  money  on  Flitterfoot  to  win  at 
odds. 

"Ain't  that  your  nigger  boy  Jeff?"  inquired 
Doctor  Lake  of  Judge  Priest,  as  the  new  comer, 
still  boring  deftly,  emerged  from  the  group  and, 
with  a  last  muttered  "Scuse  me,  boss  —  please, 
suh  —  scuse  me!"  darted  away  toward  the 
head  of  the  stretch,  where  others  of  his  race 
were  draping  themselves  over  the  top  rail  of 
the  fence  in  black  festoons. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  'tis  —  probably,"  said  Judge 
Priest  in  that  high  singsong  of  his.  "That 
black  scoundrel  of  mine  is  liable  to  be  every 
where  —  except  when  you  want  him,  and  then 
he's  not  anywhere.  That  must  be  Jeff,  I 
reckin."  And  the  old  judge  chuckled  indul 
gently  in  appreciation  of  Jeff's  manifold  talents. 

During  the  parade  of  the  veterans  that  day 
Judge  Priest,  as  commandant  of  the  camp, 
had  led  the  march  just  behind  the  fife  and 
drums  and  just  ahead  of  the  color-bearer 
carrying  the  silken  flag;  and  all  the  way  out 
from  town  Jeff,  his  manservant,  valet,  and 
guardian,  had  marched  a  pace  to  his  right. 
Jeff's  own  private  and  personal  convictions  — 
convictions  which  no  white  man  would  ever 
know  by  word  of  mouth  from  Jeff  anyhow  — 

[46] 


THE   COUNTY   TROT 


were  not  with  the  late  cause  which  those  elderly 
men  in  gray  represented.  Jeff's  political  feel 
ings,  if  any  such  he  had,  would  be  sure  to  lean 
away  from  them;  but  it  was  a  chance  to  march 
with  music  —  and  Jeff  had  marched,  his  head 
up  and  his  feet  cutting  scallops  and  double- 
shuffles  in  the  dust. 

Judge  Priest's  Jeff  was  a  small,  jet-black 
person,  swift  in  his  gait  and  wise  in  his  genera 
tion.  He  kept  his  wool  cropped  close  and  made 
the  part  in  it  with  a  razor.  By  some  subtle 
art  of  his  own  he  could  fall  heir  to  somebody 
else's  old  clothes  and,  wearing  them,  make 
them  look  newer  and  better  than  when  they 
were  new.  Overcome  by  the  specious  wiles 
of  Jeff  some  white  gentleman  of  his  acquaintance 
would  bestow  upon  him  a  garment  that  seemed 
shabby  to  the  point  of  open  shame  and  a  public 
scandal.  Jeff  would  retire  for  a  season  with  a 
pressing  iron  and  a  bottle  of  cleansing  fluid, 
and  presently  that  garment  would  come  forth, 
having  undergone  a  glorious  resurrection.  See 
ing  it,  then,  the  former  proprietor  would  repent 
his  generosity  and  wonder  what  ever  possessed 
him  to  part  with  apparel  so  splendid.  \  j 

For  this  special  and  gala  occasion  Jim  wore 
a  blue-serge  coat  that  had  been  given  to  him 
in  consideration  of  certain  acts  of  office-tending 
by  Attorney  Clay  Saunders.  Attorney  Clay 
Saunders  weighed  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
if  he  weighed  an  ounce,  and  Jeff  would  never 
see  one  hundred  and  twenty-five;  but  the  blue 

[47] 


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serge  was  draped  upon  Jeff's  frame  with  just 
the  fashionable  looseness.  The  sleeves,  though 
a  trifle  long,  hung  most  beautifully.  Jeff's 
trousers  were  of  a  light  and  pearly  gray,  and 
had  been  the  property  originally  of  Mr.  Otter- 
buck,  cashier  at  the  bank,  who  was  built  long 
and  rangy;  whereas  Jeff  was  distinctly  short 
and  ducklike.  Yet  these  same  trousers,  pressed 
now  until  you  could  have  peeled  peaches  with 
their  creases  and  turned  up  at  the  bottoms  to  a 
rakish  and  sporty  length,  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  been  specially  coopered  to  Jeff's  legs  by  a 
skilled  tailor. 

This  was  Judge  Priest's  Jeff,  whose  feet  would 
fit  anybody's  shoes  and  whose  head  would  fit 
anybody's  hat.  Having  got  his  money  safely 
down  on  Flitterfoot  to  win,  Jeff  was  presently 
choking  a  post  far  up  the  homestretch.  With 
a  final  crack  of  the  starter's  coiling  blacksnake 
and  a  mounting  scroll  of  dust,  the  runners  were 
off  on  their  half-mile  dash.  While  the  horses 
were  still  spattering  through  the  dust  on  the 
far  side  of  the  course  from  him  Jeff  began 
encouraging  his  choice  by  speech. 

"Come  on,  you  little  red  hoss!"  he  said  in  a 
low,  confidential  tone.  "I  asks  you  lak  a 
gen'leman  to  come  on  and  win  all  that  money 
fur  me.  Come  on,  you  little  red  hoss  —  you 
ain't  half  runnin'!  Little  red  hoss"  —  his 
voice  sank  to  a  note  of  passionate  pleading  — 
"whut  is  detainin'  you?" 
;  Perhaps  even  that  many  years  back,  when 

[48] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


it  had  just  been  discovered,  there  was  some 
thing  to  this  new  theory  of  thought  transference. 
As  if  Jeff's  tense  whispers  were  reaching  to  him 
across  two  hundred  yards  of  track  and  open 
field  Flitterfoot  opened  up  a  gap  between  his 
lathered  flanks  and  the  rest  of  them.  The 
others,  in  a  confused  group,  scrambled  and 
lunged  out  with  their  hoofs;  but  Flitterfoot 
turned  into  a  long  red  elastic  rubber  band, 
stretching  himself  out  to  twice  his  honest  length 
and  then  snapping  back  again  to  half.  High 
up  on  his  shoulder  the  ragged  black  stable  boy 
hung,  with  his  knees  under  his  chin  and  his 
shoulders  hunched  as  though  squaring  off  to 
do  a  little  flying  himself.  Twenty  long  yards 
ahead  of  the  nearest  contender,  Flitterfoot 
scooted  over  the  line  a  winner.  Once  across, 
he  expeditiously  bucked  the  crouching  small 
incumbrance  off  his  withers  and,  with  the  bridle 
dangling,  bounced  riderless  back  to  his  stable; 
while  above  the  roar  from  the  grandstand  rose 
the  triumphant  remark  of  Jeff:  "Ain't  he  a 
regular  runnin'  and  a-jumpin'  fool!" 

The  really  important  business  of  the  day  to 
most,  however,  centered  about  the  harness 
events,  which  was  only  natural,  this  being  an 
end  of  the  state  where  they  raised  the  stand 
ard  breds  as  distinguished  from  the  section 
whence  came  the  thoroughbreds.  A  running 
race  might  do  for  an  appetizer,  like  a  toddy 
before  dinner;  but  the  big  interest  would  focus 
in  the  two-twenty  pace  and  the  free-for-all 

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consolation,  and  finally  would  culminate  in  the 
County  Trot  —  open  only  to  horses  bred  and 
owned  in  the  county  and  carrying  with  it  a 
purse  of  two  thousand  dollars  —  big  money 
for  that  country  —  and  a  dented  and  tarnished 
silver  trophy  that  was  nearly  fifty  years  old, 
and  valued  accordingly. 

After  the  half-mile  dash  and  before  the  first 
heat  of  the  two-twenty  pace  there  was  a  balloon 
ascension  and  parachute  drop.  Judge  Priest's 
Jeff  was  everywhere  that  things  were  happen 
ing.  He  did  two  men's  part  in  holding  the 
bulging  bag  down  to  earth  until  the  spangled 
aeronaut  yelled  out  for  everybody  to  let  go. 
When  the  man  dropped,  away  over  by  the 
back  fence,  Jeff  was  first  on  the  spot  to  brush 
him  off  and  to  inquire  in  a  voice  of  respectful 
solicitude  how  he  was  feeling,  now  that  he'd 
come  down.  Up  in  the  grandstand,  Mrs. 
Major  Joe  Sam  Covington,  who  was  stout  and 
wore  a  cameo  breastpin  as  big  as  a  coffee  saucer 
at  her  throat,  expressed  to  nobody  in  particular 
a  desire  for  a  glass  of  cool  water;  and  almost, 
instantly,  it  seemed,  Judge  Priest's  Jeff  was 
at  her  side  bowing  low  and  ceremoniously  with 
a  brimming  dipper  in  one  hand  and  an  itch 
for  the  coming  tip  in  the  other.  When  the 
veterans  adjourned  back  behind  Floral  Hall 
for  a  watermelon  cutting,  Jeff,  grinning  and 
obsequious,  arrived  at  exactly  the  properly 
timed  moment  to  receive  a  whole  butt-end 
of  red-hearted,  green-rinded  lusciousness  for 

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his  own.  Taking  the  opportunity  of  a  crowded 
minute  about  Uncle  Isom  Woolfolk's  barbecued 
meat  stand  he  bought  extensively,  and  paid 
for  what  he  bought  with  a  lead  half  dollar  that 
he  had  been  saving  for  months  against  just 
such  a  golden  chance  —  a  half  dollar  so  pal 
pably  leaden  that  Uncle  Isom,  discovering  it 
half  an  hour  later,  was  thrown  into  a  state  of 
intense  rage,  followed  by  a  period  of  settled 
melancholy,  coupled  with  general  suspicion  of 
all  mankind.  Most  especially,  though,  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff  concerned  himself  with  the  running 
of  the  County  Trot,  being  minded  to  turn  his 
earlier  winnings  over  and  over  again. 

From  the  outset  Jeff,  like  most  of  the  fair 
crowd,  had  favored  Van  Wallace's  black  mare, 
Minnie  May,  against  the  only  other  entry  for 
the  race,  Jackson  Berry's  big  roan  trotting 
stallion,  Blandville  Boy.  The  judgment  of  the 
multitude  stood  up,  too,  for  the  first  two  heats 
of  the  County  Trot,  alternating  in  between 
heats  of  the  two-twenty  pace  and  the  free-for- 
all,  were  won  handily  by  the  smooth-gaited 
mare.  Blandville  Boy  was  feeling  his  oats 
and  his  grooming,  and  he  broke  badly  each  time, 
for  all  the  hobble  harness  of  leather  that  was 
buckled  over  and  under  him.  Nearly  every 
body  was  now  betting  on  Minnie  May  to  take 
the  third  and  the  decisive  heat. 

Waiting  for  it,  the  crowd  spread  over  the 
grounds,  leaving  wide  patches  of  the  grand 
stand  empty.  The  sideshows  and  the  medicine 

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venders  enjoyed  heavy  patronage,  and  once  more 
the  stalled  ox  and  the  fatted  pig  were  surrounded 
by  admiring  groups.  There  was  a  thick  jam 
about  the  crowning  artistic  gem  of  Floral  Hall 
—  a  crazy  quilt  with  eight  thousand  different 
pieces  of  silk  in  it,  mainly  of  acutely  jarring 
shades,  so  that  the  whole  was  a  thing  calcu 
lated  to  blind  the  eye  and  benumb  the  mind. 
The  city  marshal  forcibly  calmed  down  certain 
exhilarated  young  bucks  from  the  country  — 
they  would  be  sure  to  fire  off  their  pistols  and 
yell  into  every  dooryard  as  they  tore  home  that 
night,  careening  in  their  dusty  buggies;  but 
now  they  were  made  to  restrain  themselves. 
Bananas  and  cocoanuts  advanced  steadily  in 
price  as  the  visible  supply  shrank.  There  is  a 
type  of  Southern  countryman  who,  coming  to 
town  for  a  circus  day  or  a  fair,  first  eats  exten 
sively  of  bananas  —  red  bananas  preferred; 
and  then,  when  the  raw  edge  of  his  hunger  is 
abated,  he  buys  a  cocoanut  and,  after  punching 
out  one  of  its  eyes  and  drinking  the  sweet  milky 
whey,  cracks  the  shell  apart  and  gorges  on  the 
white  meat.  By  now  the  grass  was  cumbered 
with  many  shattered  cocoanut  shells,  like 
broken  shards;  and  banana  peels,  both  red 
and  yellow,  lay  wilted  and  limp  everywhere  in 
the  litter  underfoot. 

The  steam  Flyin'  Jinny  —  it  would  be  a 
carousel  farther  North  —  ground  unendingly, 
loaded  to  its  gunwales  with  family  groups. 
Crap  games  started  in  remote  spots  and  fights 

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THE    COUNTY   TROT 


broke  out.  In  a  far  shadow  of  the  fence  behind 
the  stables  one  darky  with  brass  knuckles  felled 
another,  then  broke  and  ran.  He  scuttled 
over  the  fence  like  a  fox  squirrel,  with  a  bullet 
from  a  constable's  big  blue-barreled  revolver 
spatting  into  the  paling  six  inches  below  him  as 
he  scaled  the  top  and  lit  flying  on  the  other  side. 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby,  dragging  his  Spring 
field  by  the  barrel,  began  a  long  story  touching 
on  what  he  once  heard  General  Buckner  say 
to  General  Breckinridge,  went  to  sleep  in  the 
middle  of  it,  enjoyed  a  refreshing  nap  of  twenty 
minutes,  woke  up  with  a  start  and  resumed 
the  anecdote  at  the  exact  point  where  he  left 
off  —  "An'  'en  General  Breckinridge  he  says 

to  General  Buckner,  he  says,  *  General 

But  Judge  Priest's  Jeff  disentangled  himself 
from  the  center  of  things,  and  took  a  quiet 
walk  up  toward  the  stables  to  see  what  might 
be  seen  and  to  hear  what  might  be  heard,  as 
befitting  one  who  was  speculating  heavily  and 
needed  all  available  information  to  guide  him. 
What  he  saw  was  Van  Wallace,  owner  of  the 
mare,  and  Jackson  Berry,  owner  of  the  stud 
horse,  slipping  furtively  into  an  empty  feed- 
shed.  As  they  vanished  within  Van  Wallace 
looked  about  him  cautiously,  but  Jeff  had 
already  dived  to  shelter  alongside  the  shed 
and  was  squatting  on  a  pile  of  stable  scrapings, 
where  a  swarm  of  flies  flickered  above  an  empty 
pint  flask  and  watermelon  rinds  were  curling 
up  and  drying  in  the  sun  like  old  shoesoles.  Jeff 

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had  seen  something.  Now  he  applied  his  ear 
to  a  crack  between  the  planks  of  the  feedshed 
and  heard  something. 

For  two  minutes  the  supposed  rivals  con 
fabbed  busily  in  the  shelter  of  a  broken  hay 
rack.  Then,  suddenly  taking  alarm  without 
cause,  they  both  poked  their  heads  out  at  the 
door  and  looked  about  them  searchingly  — 
right  and  left.  There  wasn't  time  for  Jeff 
to  get  away.  He  only  had  a  second's  or  two 
seconds'  warning;  but  all  the  conspirators 
saw  as  they  issued  forth  from  the  scene  of  their 
intrigue  was  a  small  darky  in  clothes  much 
too  large  for  him  lying  alongside  the  shed  in  a 
sprawled  huddle,  with  one  loose  sleeve  over  his 
face  and  one  black  forefinger  shoved  like  a 
snake's  head  down  the  neck  of  a  flat  pocket- 
flask.  Above  this  figure  the  flies  were  buzzing 
in  a  greedy  cloud. 

"Just  some  nigger  full  of  gin  that  fell  down 
there  to  sleep  it  off,"  said  Van  Wallace.  And 
he  would  have  gone  on;  but  Berry,  who  was 
a  tall  red-faced,  horsy  man  —  a  blusterer  on 
the  surface  and  a  born  coward  inside  —  booted 
the  sleeper  in  the  ribs  with  his  toe. 

"Here,  boy!"  he  commanded.  "Wake  up 
here!"  And  he  nudged  him  again  hard. 

The  negro  only  flinched  from  the  kicks,  then 
rolled  farther  over  on  his  side  and  mumbled 
through  a  snore. 

"Couldn't  hear  it  thunder,"  said  Berry 
reassured.  "Well,  let's  get  away  from  here." 

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THE    COUNTY   TROT 


"You  bet!"  said  Van  Wallace  fervently. 
"No  use  takin'  chances  by  bein'  caught  talkin' 
together.  Anyhow,  they'll  be  ringing  the 
startin'  bell  in  a  minute  or  two." 

"Don't  forget,  now!"  counseled  Berry  as 
Wallace  started  off,  making  by  a  roundabout 
and  devious  way  for  his  own  stable,  where 
Minnie  May,  hitched  to  her  sulky  and  with  her 
legs  bandaged,  was  being  walked  back  and  forth 
by  a  stable  boy. 

"Don't  you  worry;  I  won't!"  said  Wallace; 
and  Berry  grinned  joyously  and  vanished  in  the 
opposite  direction,  behind  the  handy  feedshed. 

On  the  instant  that  both  of  them  disappeared 
Judge  Priest's  Jeff  rose  to  his  feet,  magically 
changing  from  a  drunken  darky  to  an  alert 
and  flying  black  Mercury.  His  feet  hardly 
hit  the  high  places  as  he  streaked  it  for  the 
grandstand  —  looking  for  Judge  Priest  as  hard 
as  he  could  look. 

Nearly  there  he  ran  into  Captain  Buck 
Owings.  Captain  Buck  Owings  was  a  quiet, 
grayish  man,  who  from  time  to  time  in  the 
course  of  a  busy  life  as  a  steamboat  pilot  and 
master  had  had  occasion  to  shoot  at  or  into 
divers  persons.  Captain  Buck  Owings  had  a 
magnificent  capacity  for  attending  strictly 
to  his  own  business  and  not  allowing  anybody 
else  to  attend  to  it.  He  was  commonly  classi 
fied  as  dangerous  when  irritated  —  and  tolerably 
easy  to  irritate. 

"Cap'n    Buck!     Cap'n    Buck!"     sputtered 

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Jeff,  so  excited  that  he  stuttered.  "P-please, 
suh,  is  you  seen  my  boss  —  Jedge  Priest?  I 
suttinly  must  see  him  right  away.  This  here 
next  heat  is  goin'  to  be  thro  wed." 

It  was  rarely  that  Captain  Buck  Owings 
raised  his  voice  above  a  low,  deliberate  drawl. 
He  raised  it  a  trifle  now. 

"What's  that,  boy?"  he  demanded.  "Who's 
goin'  to  throw  this  race?" 

He  caught  up  with  Jeff  and  hurried  along  by 
him,  Jeff  explaining  what  he  knew  in  half  a 
dozen  panted  sentences.  As  Captain  Buck 
Owings'  mind  took  in  the  situation,  Captain 
Buck  Owings'  gray  eyes  began  to  flicker  a  little. 

Nowhere  in  sight  was  there  any  one  who 
looked  like  the  judge.  Indeed,  there  were  few 
persons  at  all  to  be  seen  on  the  scarred  green 
turf  across  which  they  sped  and  those  few  were 
hurrying  to  join  the  crowds  that  packed  thick 
upon  the  seats  of  the  grandstand,  and  thicker 
along  the  infield  fence  and  the  homestretch. 
Somewhere  beyond,  the  stable  bell  jangled. 
The  little  betting  ring  was  empty  almost  and 
the  lone  bookmaker  was  turning  his  blackboard 
down. 

His  customary  luck  served  Jeff  in  this  crisis, 
however.  From  beneath  a  cuddy  under  the 
grandstand  that  bore  a  blue  board  lettered 
with  the  word  "Refreshments"  appeared  the 
large,  slow-moving  form  of  the  old  judge.  He 
was  wiping  his  mouth  with  an  enormous  hand 
kerchief  as  he  headed  deliberately  for  the  infield 

[56] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


fence.  His  venerable  and  benevolent  pink 
face  shone  afar  and  Jeff  literally  flung  himself 
at  him. 

"Oh,  Jedge!"  he  yelled.  "Oh,  Jedge;  please, 
suh,  wait  jes'  a  minute!" 

In  some  respects  Judge  Priest  might  be  said 
to  resemble  Kipling's  East  Indian  elephant. 
He  was  large  as  to  bulk  and  conservative  as  to 
his  bodily  movements;  he  never  seemed  to 
hurry,  and  yet  when  he  set  out  to  arrive  at  a 
given  place  in  a  given  time  he  would  be  there 
in  due  season.  He  faced  about  and  propelled 
himself  toward  the  queerly  matched  pair 
approaching  him  with  such  haste. 

As  they  met,  Captain  Buck  Owings  began  to 
speak  and  his  voice  was  back  again  at  its  level 
monotone,  except  that  it  had  a  little  steaming 
sound  in  it,  as  though  Captain  Buck  Owings 
were  beginning  to  seethe  and  simmer  gently 
somewhere  down  inside  of  himself. 

"Judge  Priest,  suh,"  said  Captain  Buck, 
"it  looks  like  there'd  be  some  tall  swindlin' 
done  round  here  soon  unless  we  can  stop  it, 
This  boy  of  yours  heard  something.  Jeff 
tell  the  judge  what  you  heard  just  now."  An/ 
Jeff  told,  the  words  bubbling  out  of  him  in  i 
stream : 

"It's  done  all  fixed  up  betwixt  them  w'ite 
gen'lemen.  That  there  Mr.  Jackson  Berry 
he's  been  tormentin'  the  stallion  ontwell  he 
break  and  lose  the  fust  two  heats.  Now,  w'en 
the  money  is  all  on  the  mare,  they  goin'  to 

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turn  round  and  do  it  the  other  way.  Over 
on  the  backstretch  that  Mr.  Van  Wallace  he's 
goin'  to  spite  and  tease  Minnie  May  ontwell 
she  go  all  to  pieces,  so  the  stallion '11  be  jest 
natchelly  bound  to  win;  an'  'en  they'll  split 
up  the  money  amongst  'em!" 

"Ah-hah!"  said  Judge  Priest;  "the  infernal 
scoundrels!"  Even  in  this  emergency  his 
manner  of  speaking  was  almost  deliberate;  but 
he  glanced  toward  the  bookmaker's  block  and 
made  as  if  to  go  toward  it. 

"That  there  Yankee  bookmaker  gen'leman 
he's  into  it  too,"  added  Jeff.  "I  p'intedly 
beared  'em  both  mention  his  name." 

"I  might  speak  a  few  words  in  a  kind  of  a 
warnin'  way  to  those  two,"  purred  Captain 
Buck  Owings.  "I've  got  a  right  smart  money 
adventured  on  this  trottin'  race  myself." 
And  he  turned  toward  the  track. 

"Too  late  for  that  either,  son,"  said  the  old 
judge,  pointing.  "Look  yonder!" 

A  joyful  rumble  was  beginning  to  thunder 
from  the  grandstand.  The  constables  had 
cleared  the  track,  and  from  up  beyond  came 
the  glint  of  the  flashing  sulky-spokes  as  the 
two  conspirators  wheeled  about  to  score  down 
and  be  off. 

"Then  I  think  maybe  I'll  have  to  attend  to 
'em  personally  after  the  race,"  said  Captain 
Buck  Owings  in  a  resigned  tone. 

"Son,"  counseled  Judge  Priest,  "I'd  hate 
mightily  to  see  you  brought  up  for  trial  before 

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me  for  shootin'  a  rascal  —  especially  after  the 
mischief  was  done.  I'd  hate  that  mightily  — 
I  would  so." 

"But,  Judge,"  protested  Captain  Buck  Ow- 
ings,  "I  may  have  to  do  it!  It  oughter  be  done. 
Nearly  everybody  here  has  bet  on  Minnie  May. 
It's  plain  robbin'  and  stealin'!" 

"That's  so,"  assented  the  judge  as  Jeff  danced 
a  clog  of  excitement  just  behind  him  —  "that's 
so.  It's  bad  enough  for  those  two  to  be  robbin' 
their  own  fellow-citizens;  but  it's  mainly  the 
shame  on  our  county  fair  I'm  thinkin'  of." 
The  old  judge  had  been  a  director  and  a  stock 
holder  of  the  County  Jockey  Club  for  twenty 
years  or  more.  Until  now  its  record  had  been 
clean.  "Tryin*  to  declare  the  result  off  after 
ward  wouldn't  do  much  good.  It  would  be 


"The  word  of  three  white  men  against  a 
nigger  —  and  nobody  would  believe  the  nigger," 
added  Captain  Buck  Owings,  finishing  the 
sentence  for  him. 

"And  the  scandal  would  remain  jest  the 
same,"  bemoaned  the  old  judge.  "Buck,  my 
son,  unless  we  could  do  something  before  the 
race  it  looks  like  it's  hopeless.  Ah!" 

The  roar  from  the  grandstand  above  their 
heads  deepened,  then  broke  up  into  babblings 
and  exclamations.  The  two  trotters  had  swung 
past  the  mark,  but  Minnie  May  had  slipped  a 
length  ahead  at  the  tape  and  the  judges  had 
sent  them  back  again.  There  would  be  a 

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minute  or  two  more  of  grace  anyhow.  The 
eyes  of  all  three  followed  the  nodding  heads  of 
the  horses  back  up  the  stretch.  Then  Judge 
Priest,  still  watching,  reached  out  for  Jeff  and 
dragged  him  round  in  front  of  him,  dangling 
in  his  grip  like  a  hooked  black  eel. 

"Jeff,  don't  I  see  a  gate  up  yonder  in  the 
track  fence  right  at  the  first  turn?"  he  asked. 

"Yas,  suh,"  said  Jeff  eagerly.  "'Tain't 
locked  neither.  I  come  through  it  myse'f 
today.  It  opens  on  to  a  little  road  whut  leads 
out  past  the  stables  to  the  big  pike.  I  kin  — " 

The  old  judge  dropped  his  wriggling  servitor 
and  had  Captain  Buck  Owings  by  the  shoulder 
with  one  hand  and  was  pointing  with  the  other 
up  the  track,  and  was  speaking,  explaining 
something  or  other  in  a  voice  unusually  brisk 
for  him. 

"See  yonder,  son!"  he  was  saying.  "The 
big  oak  on  the  inside  —  and  the  gate  is  jest 
across  from  it!" 

Comprehension  lit  up  the  steamboat  cap 
tain's  face,  but  the  light  went  out  as  he  slapped 
his  hand  back  to  his  hip  pocket  —  and  slapped 
it  flat. 

"I  knew  I'd  forgot  something!"  he  lamented, 
despairingly.  "Needin'  one  worse  than  I  ever 
did  in  my  whole  life  —  and  then  I  leave  mine 
home  in  my  other  pants!" 

He  shot  the  judge  a  look.  The  judge  shook 
his  head. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "the  circuit  judge  of  the 

[60] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


first  judicial  district  of  Kintucky  don't  tote 
such  things." 

Captain  Buck  Owings  raised  a  clenched  fist 
to  the  blue  sky  above  and  swore  impotently. 
For  the  third  time  the  grandstand  crowd  was 
starting  its  roar.  Judge  Priest's  head  began 
to  waggle  with  little  sidewise  motions. 

Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby,  late  of  King's  Hell 
hounds,  rambled  with  weaving  indirectness 
round  the  corner  of  the  grandstand  not  twenty 
feet  from  them.  His  gangrened  cartridge- 
box  was  trying  to  climb  up  over  his  left  shoulder 
from  behind,  his  eyes  were  heavy  with  a  warm 
and  comforting  drowsiness,  and  his  Spring 
field's  iron  butt-plate  was  scurfing  up  the  dust 
a  yard  behind  him  as  he  hauled  the  musket 
along  by  the  muzzle. 

The  judge  saw  him  first;  but,  even  as  he 
spoke  and  pointed,  Captain  Buck  Owings 
caught  the  meaning  and  jumped.  There  was 
a  swirl  of  arms  and  legs  as  they  struck,  and 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby,  sorely  shocked,  stag 
gered  back  against  the  wall  with  a  loud  grunt 
of  surprise  and  indignation. 

Half  a  second  later,  side  by  side,  Captain 
Buck  Owings  and  Judge  Priest's  Jeff  sped  north 
ward  across  the  earth,  and  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby  staggered  toward  the  only  comforter  near 
at  hand,  with  his  two  empty  arms  upraised. 
Filled  with  a  great  and  sudden  sense  of  loss  he 
fell  upon  Judge  Priest's  neck,  aTmost  bearing 
his  commander  down  by  the  weight  of  his  grief. 

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"Carried  her  four  years!"  he  exclaimed 
piteously;  "four  endurin'  years,  Judge,  and 
not  a  single  dam'  Yankee  ever  laid  his  hand  on 
her!  Carried  her  ever  since,  and  nobody  ever 
dared  to  touch  her!  And  now  to  lose  her  this- 
away!" 

His  voice,  which  had  risen  to  a  bleat,  sank 
to  a  sob  and  he  wept  unrestrainedly  on  the 
old  judge's  shoulder.  It  looked  as  though 
these  two  old  men  were  wrestling  together, 
catch-as-catch-can . 

The  judge  tried  to  shake  his  distressed  friend 
off,  but  the  sergeant  clung  fast.  Over  the 
bent  shoulders  of  the  other  the  judge  saw  the 
wheels  flash  by,  going  south,  horses  and  drivers 
evened  up.  The  "Go!"  of  the  starting  judge 
was  instantly  caught  up  by  five  hundred 
spectators  and  swallowed  in  a  crackling  yell. 
Oblivious  of  all  these  things  the  sergeant  raised 
his  sorrowing  head  and  a  melancholy  satis 
faction  shone  through  his  tears. 

"I  lost  her,"  he  said;  "but,  by  gum,  Judge, 
it  took  all  four  of  'em  to  git  her  away  from  me, 
didn't  it?" 

None,  perhaps,  in  all  that  crowd  except  old 
Judge  Priest  saw  the  two  fleeting  figures  speed 
ing  north.  All  other  eyes  there  were  turned 
to  the  south,  where  the  county's  rival  trotters 
swung  round  the  first  turn,  traveling  together 
like  teammates.  None  marked  Captain  Buck 
Owings  as,  strangely  cumbered,  he  scuttled 
across  the  track  from  the  outer  side  to  the  inner 


[62] 


THE    COUNTY    TROT 


and  dived  like  a  rabbit  under  the  fence  at  the 
head  of  the  homestretch,  where  a  big  oak  tree 
with  a  three-foot  bole  cast  its  lengthening 
shadows  across  the  course.  None  marked 
Judge  Priest's  Jeff  coiling  down  like  a  black- 
snake  behind  an  unlatched  wooden  gate  almost 
opposite  where  the  tree  stood. 

None  marked  these  things,  because  at  this 
moment  something  direful  happened.  Minnie 
May,  the  favorite,  was  breaking  badly  on  the 
back  length.  Almost  up  on  her  hindlegs  she 
lunged  out  ahead  of  her  with  her  forefeet,  like 
a  boxer.  That  far  away  it  looked  to  the  grand 
stand  crowds  as  though  Van  Wallace  had  lost 
his  head  entirely.  One  instant  he  was  savagely 
lashing  the  mare  along  the  flanks,  the  next  he 
was  pulling  her  until  he  was  stretched  out  flat 
on  his  back,  with  his  head  back  between  the 
painted  sulky  wheels.  And  Blandville  Boy, 
steady  as  a  clock,  was  drawing  ahead  and 
making  a  long  gap  between  them. 

Blandville  Boy  came  on  grandly  —  far  ahead 
at  the  hah*;  still  farther  ahead  nearing  the 
three-quarters.  All  need  for  breaking  her  gait 
being  now  over,  crafty  Van  Wallace  had 
steadied  the  mare  and  again  she  trotted  per 
fectly —  trotted  fast  too;  but  the  mischief 
was  done  and  she  was  hopelessly  out  of  it, 
being  sure  to  be  beaten  and  lucky  if  she  saved 
being  distanced. 

The  whole  thing  had  worked  beautifully, 
without  a  hitch.  This  thought  was  singing 

[63] 


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high  in  Jackson  Berry's  mind  as  he  steered 
the  stud-horse  past  the  three-quarter  post 
and  saw  just  beyond  the  last  turn  the  straight 
away  of  the  homestretch,  opening  up  empty 
and  white  ahead  of  him.  And  then,  seventy- 
five  yards  away,  he  beheld  a  most  horrifying 
apparition ! 

Against  a  big  oak  at  the  inner-track  fence, 
sheltered  from  the  view  of  all  behind,  but  in 
full  sight  of  the  turn,  stood  Captain  Buck 
Owings,  drawing  down  on  him  with  a  huge 
and  hideous  firearm.  How  was  Jackson  Berry, 
thus  rudely  jarred  from  pleasing  prospects,  to 
know  that  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby's  old  Spring 
field  musket  hadn't  been  fired  since  Appomat- 
tox  —  that  its  lock  was  a  solid  mass  of  corroded 
metal,  its  stock  worm-eaten  walnut  and  its 
barrel  choked  up  thick  with  forty  years  of  rust ! 
All  Jackson  Berry  knew  was  that  the  fearsome 
muzzle  of  an  awful  weapon  was  following  him 
as  he  moved  down  toward  it  and  that  behind 
the  tall  mule's  ear  of  a  hammer  and  the  brass 
guard  of  the  trigger  he  saw  the  cold,  forbidding 
gray  of  Captain  Buck  Owings'  face  and  the 
colder,  more  forbidding,  even  grayer  eye  of 
Captain  Buck  Owings  —  a  man  known  to  be 
dangerous  when  irritated  —  and  tolerably  easy 
to  irritate! 

Before  that  menacing  aim  and  posture 
Jackson  Berry's  flesh  turned  to  wine  jelly 
and  quivered  on  his  bones.  His  eyes  bulged 
out  on  his  cheeks  and  his  cheeks  went  white  to 

[64] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


match  his  eyes.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 
stallion's  stern  between  them,  his  knees  would 
have  knocked  together.  Involuntarily  he  drew 
back  on  the  reins,  hauling  in  desperately  until 
Blandville  Boy's  jaws  were  pulled  apart  like 
the  red  painted  mouth  of  a  hobby-horse  and  his 
forelegs  sawed  the  air.  The  horse  was  fighting 
to  keep  on  to  the  nearing  finish,  but  the  man 
could  feel  the  slugs  of  lead  in  his  flinching 
body. 

And  then  —  and  then  —  fifty  scant  feet 
ahead  of  him  and  a  scanter  twenty  above 
where  the  armed  madman  stood  —  a  wide 
gate  flew  open;  and,  as  this  gap  of  salvation 
broke  into  the  line  of  the  encompassing  fence, 
the  welcome  clarion  of  Judge  Priest's  Jeff  rose 
in  a  shriek:  "This  way  out,  boss  —  this  way 
out!" 

It  was  a  time  for  quick  thinking;  and  to 
persons  as  totally,  wholly  scared  as  Jackson 
Berry  was,  thinking  comes  wondrous  easy. 
One  despairing  half-glance  he  threw  upon 
the  goal  just  ahead  of  him  and  the  other  half 
on  that  unwavering  rifle-muzzle,  now  looming 
so  close  that  he  could  catch  the  glint  of  its 
sights.  Throwing  himself  far  back  in  his  reeling 
sulky  Jackson  Berry  gave  a  desperate  yank  on 
the  lines  that  lifted  the  sorely  pestered  stallion 
clear  out  of  his  stride,  then  sawed  on  the  right- 
hand  rein  until  he  swung  the  horse's  head 
through  the  opening,  grazing  one  wheel  against  a 
gatepost — and  was  gone  past  the  whooping  Jeff, 

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lickety-split,  down  the  dirt  road,  through  the 
dust  and  out  on  the  big  road  toward  town. 

Jeff  slammed  the  gate  shut  and  vanished 
instantly.  Captain  Buck  Owings  dropped  his 
weapon  into  the  long,  rank  grass  and  slid  round 
the  treetrunk.  And  half  a  minute  later  Van 
Wallace,  all  discomfited  and  puzzled,  with  all 
his  fine  hopes  dished  and  dashed,  sorely  against 
his  own  will  jogged  Minnie  May  a  winner  past 
a  grandstand  that  recovered  from  its  dumb 
astonishment  in  ample  time  to  rise  and  yell  its 
approval  of  the  result. 

Judge  Priest  being  a  childless  widower  of 
many  years'  standing,  his  household  was 
administered  for  him  by  Jeff  as  general  manager, 
and  by  Aunt  Dilsey  Turner  as  kitchen  goddess. 
Between  them  the  old  judge  fared  well  and  they 
fared  better.  Aunt  Dilsey  was  a  master  hand 
at  a  cookstove;  but  she  went  home  at  night, 
no  matter  what  the  state  of  the  weather,  wear 
ing  one  of  those  long,  wide  capes  —  dolmans, 
I  think  they  used  to  call  them  —  that  hung 
clear  down  to  the  knees,  hiding  the  wearer's 
hands  and  whatsoever  the  hands  might  be 
carrying. 

It  was  a  fad  of  Aunt  Dilsey's  to  bring  one 
covered  splint  basket  and  one  close-mouthed 
tin  bucket  with  her  when  she  came  to  work  in 
the  morning,  and  to  take  both  of  them  away 
with  her  —  under  her  dolman  cape  —  at  night; 
and  in  her  cabin  on  Plunkett's  Hill  she  had  a 

[66] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


large  family  of  her  own  and  two  paying  boarders, 
all  of  whom  had  the  appearance  of  being  well 
nourished.  If  you,  reader,  are  Southern-born, 
these  seemingly  trivial  details  may  convey  a 
meaning  to  your  understanding. 

So  Aunt  Dilsey  Turner  looked  after  the 
judge's  wants  from  the  big  old  kitchen  that 
was  detached  from  the  rest  of  the  rambling 
white  house,  and  Jeff  had  the  run  of  his  side 
board,  his  tobacco  caddy,  and  his  wardrobe. 
The  judge  was  kept  comfortable  and  they  were 
kept  happy,  each  respecting  the  other's  property 
rights. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  last 
day  of  the  county  fair.  The  judge,  mellowly 
comfortable  in  his  shirtsleeves,  reclined  in  a  big 
easy  rocking-chair  in  his  sitting  room.  There 
was  a  small  fire  of  hickory  wood  in  the  fireplace 
and  the  little  flames  bickered  together  and  the 
embers  popped  as  they  charred  a  dimmer  red. 
The  old  judge  was  smoking  his  homemade 
corncob  pipe  with  the  long  cane  stem,  and 
sending  smoke  wreaths  aloft  to  shred  away 
like  cobweb  skeins  against  the  dingy  ceiling. 

"Jeff!"  he  called  to  a  black  shadow  fidgeting 
about  in  the  background. 

"Yas,  suh,  Jedge;  right  yere!" 

"Jeff,  if  your  discernin'  taste  in  handmade 
sour-mash  whisky  has  permitted  any  of  that 
last  batch  of  liquor  I  bought  to  remain  in  the 
demijohn,  I  wish  you'd  mix  me  up  a  little 
toddy." 

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Jeff  snickered  and  mixed  the  toddy,  mix 
ing  it  more  hurriedly  then  common,  because 
he  was  anxious  to  be  gone.  It  was  Saturday 
night  —  a  night  dedicated  by  long  usage  to  his 
people;  and  in  Jeff's  pocket  was  more  ready 
money  than  his  pocket  had  ever  held  before 
at  any  one  time.  Moreover,  in  the  interval 
between  dusk  and  dark,  Jeff's  wardrobe  had 
been  most  grandly  garnished.  Above  Mr.  Clay 
Saunders'  former  blue  serge  coat  a  crimson 
necktie  burned  like  a  beacon,  and  below  the 
creased  legs  of  Mr.  Otterbuck's  late  pearl-gray 
trousers  now  appeared  a  pair  of  new  patent- 
leather  shoes  with  pointed  toes  turned  up  at  the 
ends  like  sleigh-runners  and  cloth  uppers  in  the 
effective  colors  of  the  Douglas  plaid  and  rows 
of  24-point  white  pearl  buttons. 

Assuredly  Jeff  was  anxious  to  be  on  his  way. 
He  placed  the  filled  toddy  glass  at  the  old 
judge's  elbow  and  sought  unostentatiously  to 
withdraw  himself. 

"Jeff!"    said  the  judge. 

"Yas,  suh." 

"I  believe  Mr.  Jackson  Berry  did  not  see  fit 
to  return  to  the  fair  grounds  this  evenin'  and 
protest  the  result  of  the  third  heat?" 

"No,  suh,"  said  Jeff;  "frum  whut  I  beared 
some  of  the  w'ite  folks  sayin',  he  driv  right 
straight  home  and  went  to  bed  and  had  a  sort 
of  a  chill." 

"Ah-hah!"  said  the  judge,  sipping  reflec 
tively.  Jeff  fidgeted  and  drew  nearer  a  half- 

[68] 


THE    COUNTY   TROT 


open  window,  listening  out  into  the  maple-lined 
street.  Two  blocks  down  the  street  he  could 
hear  the  colored  brass  band  playing  in  front  of 
the  Colored  Odd  Fellows  Hall  for  a  "festibul." 

"Jeff,"  said  Judge  Priest  musingly,  "violence 
or  a  show  of  violence  is  always  to  be  deplored." 

Jeff  had  only  a  hazy  idea  of  what  the  old 
judge  meant  by  that,  but  in  all  his  professional 
life  Jeff  had  never  intentionally  disagreed  in 
conversation  with  any  white  adult  —  let  alone 
a  generous  employer.  So: 

"Yas,  suh,"  assented  Jeff  promptly;  "it 
suttinly  is." 

"But  there  are  times  and  places,"  went  on 
the  old  judge,  "when  it  is  necessary." 

"Yas,  suh,"  said  Jeff,  catching  the  drift  — 
"  lak  at  a  racetrack ! " 

"Ah-hah!  Quite  so,"  said  Judge  Priest, 
nodding.  "And,  Jeff,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  there  are  better  ways  of  killin'  a  cat  than 
by  chokin'  him  with  butter?" 

"Indeed  yas,  suh,"  said  Jeff.  "Sometimes 
you  kin  do  it  best  with  one  of  these  yere  ole 
rusty  Confedrit  guns!" 

At  that  precise  moment,  in  a  little  house 
on  the  next  street,  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby's  , 
family,  having  prevailed  upon  him  to  remove 
his  shoes  and  his  cartridge-belt  before  retiring, 
were  severally  engaged  in  an  attempt  to  dis 
suade  him  from  a  firmly  expressed  purpose  of 
taking  his  Springfield  musket  to  bed  with  him. 


69] 


Ill 

FIVE   HUNDRED    DOLLARS 
REWARD 


WE  had  a  feud  once   down  in  our 
country,  not  one  of  those  sangui 
nary  feuds  of  the  mountains    in 
volving  a  whole  district  and  forcing 
constant     enlargements     of     hillside     burying 
grounds,  nor  yet  a  feud  handed  down  as  a  deadly 
legacy  from  one  generation  to  another  until 
its   origin   is   forgotten   and   its   legatees   only 
know  how  they  hate  without  knowing  why, 
but   a   shabby,   small   neighborhood   vendetta 
affecting  but  two  families  only,  and  those  in  a 
far  corner  of  the  county  —  the  Flemings  and 
the  Faxons. 

Nevertheless,  this  feud,  such  as  it  was,  per 
sisted  in  a  sluggish  intermittent  kind  of  a  way 
for  twenty  years  or  so.  It  started  in  a  dispute 
over  a  line  boundary  away  back  in  War  Times 
when  a  Faxon  shot  a  Fleming  and  was  in  turn 
shot  by  another  Fleming;  and  it  lasted  until 
the  Faxons  tired  of  fence-corner,  briar-patch 

[70] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

warfare  and  moved  down  into  Tennessee,  all 
but  one  branch  of  them,  who  came  into  town 
and  settled  there,  leaving  the  Flemings  domi 
nant  in  the  Gum  Spring  precinct.  So  the  feud 
ceased  to  be  an  institution  after  that  and  became 
a  memory,  living  only  in  certain  smouldering 
animosities  which  manifested  themselves  at 
local  elections  and  the  like,  until  it  flared  up 
momentarily  in  the  taking-off  of  old  Ranee 
Fleming  at  the  hands  of  young  Jim  Faxon; 
and  then  it  died,  and  died  for  good. 

It  is  the  manner  of  the  taking-off  of  this  one 
of  the  Flemings  that  makes  material  for  the 
story  I  am  telling  here.  By  all  accounts  it 
would  appear  that  the  Faxons  had  been  rather 
a  weak-spined  race  who  fought  mostly  on  the 
defensive  and  were  lacking  in  that  malignant 
persistency  that  made  old  Ranee  Fleming's 
name  one  to  scare  bad  children  with  in  the  un 
settled  days  following  the  Surrender.  I  re 
member  how  we  boys  used  to  watch  him, 
half-fearsomely  and  half-admirmgly,  when  he 
came  to  town  on  a  Court  Monday  or  on  a 
Saturday  and  swaggered  about,  unkempt  and 
mud-crusted  and  frequently  half  drunk.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  he  would  mount  unsteadily 
to  the  tilted  seat  of  his  spring  wagon  and  go 
back  home  to  the  Gum  Spring  country  lashing 
at  his  team  until  they  danced  with  terror  and 
splitting  the  big  road  wide  open  through  the 
middle.  And  that  night  at  the  places  where 
the  older  men  congregated  there  would  be  tales 

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to  tell  of  those  troubled  mid-sixties  when  old 
Ranee  had  worn  the  turn-coat  of  a  guerilla, 
preying  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 
Now  young  Jim  Faxon,  last  male  survivor 
of  his  clan,  and  direct  in  the  line  of  the  original 
fighting  Faxons,  was  a  different  sort  of  person 
altogether,  a  quiet,  undersized,  decent-spoken 
young  chap  who  minded  well  his  own  business, 
which  was  keeping  a  truck  stand  on  the  Market. 
He  lived  with  his  aunt,  old  Miss  Puss  Whitley 
—  certain  women  were  still  called  Miss  in  our 
town  even  though  they  had  been  married  for 
twenty  years  and  widowed  for  as  many  more, 
as  was  the  case  in  this  instance  —  and  he  was 
her  main  support  and  stand-by.  It  was  com 
mon  rumor  that  when  young  Jim  came  of  age 
and  had  a  little  money  laid  by  on  his  own 
account,  he  meant  to  marry  the  little  Hardin 
girl  —  Emmy  Hardin  —  and  this  was  a  romance 
that  nearly  everybody  in  town  knew  about  and 
favored  most  heartily.  She  was  his  distant 
cousin  and  an  orphan,  and  she  lived  with  Miss 
Puss  too.  Sometimes  in  good  weather  she 
would  come  in  with  him  and  help  out  at  the 
truck  stand.  She  was  a  little  quail-like  crea 
ture,  quick  in  her  movements  and  shy  as  a 
bunny,  with  pretty  irregular  features  and  a 
skin  so  clear  and  white  that  when  she  blushed, 
which  was  a  hundred  times  a  day,  the  color 
would  drench  her  face  to  the  temples  and  make 
her  prettier  than  ever.  All  of  Jim's  regular 
customers  approved  his  choice  of  a  sweetheart 

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FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

and  wished  him  mighty  well.  He  was  regarded 
as  about  the  pick  of  the  thinned-out  Faxon 
breed. 

For  the  years  that  young  Jim  was  growing 
up,  his  tribal  enemy  left  him  alone.  Perhaps 
old  Ranee  regarded  the  lank  sapling  of  a  boy 
as  being  not  worth  even  the  attention  of  an 
insult.  Probably  in  crowds  they  had  rubbed 
elbows  a  dozen  times  with  no  engendering  of 
friction.  But  when  young  Jim  had  passed  his 
twentieth  birthday  and  was  almost  a  man 
grown,  then  all  without  warning  Ranee  Fleming 
set  to  work,  with  malice  aforethought,  to  pick 
a  quarrel  with  him.  It  was  as  deliberate  and 
as  brutal  as  anything  could  be.  Of  a  sudden, 
it  seemed,  the  torrents  of  long-submerged  hate 
came  spuming  up  from  some  deep  back  eddy 
in  his  muddied,  fuddled  old  mind,  making  an 
evil  whirlpool  of  passion. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  November 
that  old  Ranee  came,  boiling  with  his  venom, 
to  spew  it  out  on  the  son  of  his  dead  and  gone 
enemy.  It  happened  on  the  market,  and  if 
old  Ranee  aimed  to  add  brim  measure  to  the 
humiliation  of  the  boy,  not  in  a  year  of  choosing 
could  he  have  picked  fitter  time  and  place. 
The  green  grocer  wasn't  known  then;  every 
body  went  to  market  in  person  on  week  day 
mornings  and  particularly  everybody  went  of 
a  Saturday  afternoon.  In  the  market  square, 
town  aristocrat  and  town  commoner  met  on 
the  same  footing,  a  market  basket  over  every 

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arm,  with  this  distinction  only :  —  that  ordinary 
folk  toted  their  loaded  baskets  back  home  and 
the  well-to-do  paid  to  have  theirs  sent.  There 
were  at  least  twenty  darkies  who  picked  up  a 
living  by  packing  market  baskets  home.  They 
all  had  their  regular  patrons  and  regarded  them 
with  jealous,  proprietary  eyes.  You  took  a 
customer  away  from  a  basket  darky  and  you 
had  him  to  fight. 

There  is  a  new  market  house  now  on  the  site 
of  the  old  one,  a  pretentious  affair  of  brick  with 
concrete  floors  and  screened  window  openings 
and  provision  for  steam  heat  in  the  winter; 
but  then,  and  for  many  years  before  that,  the 
market  was  a  decrepit  shed-like  thing,  closed 
in  the  middle  and  open  at  the  ends,  with  a 
shingled  roof  that  sagged  in  on  itself  and  had 
hollows  in  it  like  the  sunken  jaws  of  a  toothless 
old  hag;  and  there  were  cracks  in  the  side 
walls  that  you  could  throw  a  dog  through, 
almost.  In  the  middle,  under  half-way  shelter, 
were  the  stalls  of  the  butchers,  which  were 
handed  down  from  father  to  son  so  that  one 
stall  would  remain  in  a  family  for  generations; 
and  here  one  bought  the  beef  steaks  of  the 
period  —  long  bib-shaped  segments  of  pale 
red  meat,  cut  miraculously  long  and  marvel- 
ously  thin,  almost  like  apron  patterns.  This 
thinness  facilitated  the  beating  process  —  the 
cooks  would  pound  them  with  tools  devised 
for  that  purpose  —  and  then  they  were  fried 
through  and  through  and  drenched  with  a 

[74] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

thick  flour  gravy.  Such  was  the  accustomed 
way  of  treating  a  beef  steak.  Persons  with 
good  teeth  could  eat  them  so,  and  for  the  others 
the  brown  flour  gravy  provided  a  sustenance. 
But  the  spring  chickens  were  marvels  for 
plumpness  and  freshness  and  cheapness;  and 
in  the  early  spring  the  smoked  hog  jowls  hung 
in  rows,  fairly  begging  people  to  carry  them  off 
and  boil  them  with  salad  greens;  and  in  the 
fall  when  the  hog  killing  season  was  at  hand, 
the  country  sausage  and  the  chines  and  back 
bones  and  spare  ribs  made  racks  of  richness 
upon  the  worn  marble  slabs. 

Up  at  the  far  end  of  the  square  beyond  the 
shed  eaves  stood  the  public  scales,  and  around 
it  hay  growers  and  cord  wood  choppers  and 
Old  Man  Brimm,  the  official  charcoal  burner 
of  the  county,  waited  for  trade  alongside  their 
highpiled  wagons.  Next  to  them  was  the 
appointed  place  of  the  fish  hucksters,  which 
was  an  odorous  place,  where  channel  cats  and 
river  perch  and  lake  crappies  were  piled  on  the 
benches,  some  still  alive  and  feebly  flapping. 
The  darkies  were  sure  to  be  thickest  here. 
There  was  an  unsung  but  none  the  less  authen 
tic  affinity  existing  between  a  fresh-caught 
catfish  and  an  old  negro  man. 

Down  at  the  other  end  was  the  domain  of 
the  gardeners  and  the  truck  patch  people  — 
an  unwritten  law  as  old  as  the  market  itself 
ordained  these  apportionments  of  space  — 
and  here  you  might  find  in  their  seasons  all 

[75] 


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manner  of  edibles,  wild  and  tame.  The  country 
boys  and  girls  ranged  the  woods  and  the  fields 
for  sellable  things,  to  go  along  with  the  product 
of  orchard  and  garden  and  berry  patch.  In 
the  spring,  when  herb  teas  and  home-brewed 
tonics  were  needed  for  the  thinning  of  the  blood, 
there  would  be  yellow-red  sassafras  root  tied 
up  in  fragrant,  pungent  bunches,  all  ready  for 
steeping;  and  strings  of  fresh-shot  robins  for 
pot-pies  were  displayed  side  by  side  with  clumps 
of  turnip-greens  and  mustard  greens.  And  in 
summer  there  would  be  all  manner  of  wild 
berries  and  heaps  of  the  sickish-smelling  May 
apples;  and  later,  after  the  first  light  frost, 
ripe  pawpaws  and  baskets  of  wild  fox  grapes, 
like  blue  shoe  buttons;  and  then  later  on,  scaly- 
bark  hickory  nuts  and  fresh-brewed  persimmon 
beer  in  kegs,  and  piggins  and  crocks  of  the  real 
lye  hominy,  with  the  big  blue  grains  of  the 
corn  all  asmoke  like  slaking  lime,  and  birds  — 
which  meant  quail  always  —  and  rabbits, 
stretched  out  stark  and  stiff,  and  the  native 
red-skinned  yams,  and  often  possums,  alive 
and  "  sulling"  in  small  wooden  cages,  or  else 
dead  and  dressed,  with  the  dark  kidney-fat 
coating  their  immodestly  exposed  interiors. 

As  I  was  saying,  it  was  on  a  Saturday  in 
November  and  getting  along  toward  Thanks 
giving  when  old  Ranee  Fleming  came  to  the 
market  to  shame  young  Jim  Faxon  before  the 
crowd.  And  when  he  came,  you  could  tell  by 
his  look  and  by  the  way  he  shouldered  through 

[761 


FIVE    HUNDRED     DOLLARS    REWARD 

the  press  of  people  between  the  double  rows 
of  stands  that  all  the  soured  animosities  of  his 
nature  had  swelled  to  bursting  under  the  yeasty 
ferment  of  an  unstable,  hair-triggered  temper. 
The  liquor  he  had  drunk  might  have  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it  too.  He  came  up  with  a 
barely  perceptible  lurch  in  his  gait  and  stopped 
at  the  Faxon  stall,  which  was  the  third  from 
the  lower  end  of  the  shed.  With  his  head  down 
between  his  shoulders  and  his  legs  spraddled 
he  began  staring  into  the  face  of  young  Jim. 
Deadly  offense  can  be  carried  just  as  well  in  a 
look  as  in  the  spoken  word,  if  you  only  know 
how  to  do  it  —  and  Ranee  Fleming  knew. 
There  was  outright  obscenity  in  his  glower. 

Instantly  it  seemed,  everybody  in  that 
whole  end  of  the  market  square  sensed  what 
was  impending.  Sellers  and  buyers  ceased 
trafficking  and  faced  all  the  same  way.  Those 
in  the  rear  were  standing  on  tiptoe  the  better 
to  see  over  the  heads  of  those  nearer  to  these 
two  blood  enemies.  Some  climbed  upon  the 
wheel  hubs  of  the  wagons  that  were  backed  up 
in  rows  alongside  the  open  shed  and  balanced 
themselves  there.  The  silence  grew  electric 
and  tingled  with  the  feeling  of  a  coming  clash. 

Young  Jim  wanted  no  trouble,  that  was  plain 
enough  to  be  seen.  The  first  darting  realiza 
tion  that  his  tribal  foe  had  forced  a  meeting 
on  him  seemed  to  leave  him  dazed,  and  at  a 
loss  for  the  proper  course  to  follow.  He  bent 
his  face  away  from  the  blasphemous  insistent 

[77] 


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glare  of  the  old  man  and  made  a  poor  pretense 
at  straightening  up  his  wares  upon  the  bench 
in  front  of  him;  but  his  hands  trembled  so  he 
overturned  a  little  wooden  measure  that  held 
a  nickel's  worth  of  dried  lady-peas.  The  little 
round  peas  rolled  along  a  sunken  place  in  the 
wood  and  began  spattering  off  in  a  steady 
stream,  like  buck-shot  spilling  from  a  canister. 
A  dark  red  flush  came  up  the  back  of  the  boy's 
neck.  He  was  only  twenty,  anyhow,  and  those 
who  looked  on  were  sorry  for  him  and  for  his 
youth  and  helplessness  and  glad  that  little 
Emmy  Hardin,  his  sweetheart,  wasn't  there. 

It  was  a  long  half  minute  that  old  Ranee, 
without  speaking,  stood  there,  soaking  his  soul 
in  the  sight  of  a  Faxon's  discomfiture,  and  when 
he  spoke  he  grated  the  words  as  though  he  had 
grit  in  his  mouth. 

"Looky  here  you,"  he  ordered,  and  the  boy, 
as  though  forced  to  obey  by  a  will  stronger  than 
his  own,  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  him. 

"Mister  Fleming,"  he  answered,  "what  — 
what  is  it  you  want  with  me — Mister  Fleming?  " 

"Mister  Fleming  —  Mister  Fleming," 
mimicked  the  older  man,  catching  at  his 
words,  "Mister  Fleming,  huh?  Well,  you 
know  mighty  good  and  well,  I  reckin,  whut  it 
is  I  want  with  you.  I  want  to  see  if  you're 
as  white-livered  as  the  rest  of  your  low-flung, 
hound-dawg,  chicken-hearted  breed  used  to  be. 
And  I  reckin  you  are. 

"Mister  Fleming,  huh?    Well,  from  now  on 

[78] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

that's  whut  it  better  be  and  don't  you  fail  to 
call  me  by  them  entitlements  either.  The 
next  time  I  come  by  I  reckin  you  better  take 
off  your  hat  to  me  too.  Do  you  hear  me, 
plain,  whut  I'm  a-sayin'  ?  You " 

He  called  him  the  unforgivable,  unatonable 
name  —  the  fighting  word,  than  which,  by  the 
standards  of  that  community  and  those  people, 
no  blow  with  a  clenched  fist  could  be  in  one 
twentieth  part  so  grievous  an  injury;  yes,  it 
was  worse  than  a  hundred  blows  of  a  fist.  So 
at  that,  the  onlookers  gave  back  a  little,  making 
way  for  the  expected  rush  and  grapple.  But 
there  was  no  forward  rush  by  the  younger  man, 
no  grapple  with  the  older. 

Young  Jim  Faxon  took  it  —  he  just  stood 
and  took  it  without  a  word  or  a  step.  Old 
Ranee  looked  at  him  and  laughed  out  his  con 
tempt  in  a  derisive  chuckle  and  then  he  turned 
and  slouched  off,  without  looking  back,  as 
though  he  disdained  to  watch  for  a  rear  attack 
from  so  puny  and  spineless  an  enemy.  It  all 
started  and  happened  and  was  over  with  in  a 
minute  or  less.  The  last  of  the  spilt  lady 
peas  were  still  spattering  down  upon  the  rough 
bricks  of  the  market  and  running  away  and 
hiding  themselves  in  cracks.  Young  Jim, 
his  head  on  his  breast  and  his  shamed  eyes 
looking  down  at  nothing,  was  fumbling  again 
with  his  wares  and  Ranee  Fleming's  hunching 
shoulders  were  vanishing  at  the  end  of  the 
shed. 

[79] 


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People  talked  about  it  that  night  and  for 
days  after.  It  was  not  a  thing  to  forget  —  a 
man  near  grown  who  lacked  the  sand  to  resent 
that  insult.  A  fist  fight  might  have  been  for 
gotten,  even  a  fist  fight  between  these  two 
heritors  of  a  feud  instinct,  but  not  this.  Some 
of  the  younger  fellows  didn't  see,  they  said, 
how  Jim  Faxon  could  hold  his  head  up  again 
and  look  people  in  the  eye.  And  Jim  didn't 
hold  his  head  up  —  not  as  high  as  he  had  held 
it  before  this  happened.  Broody-eyed  and 
glum  and  tight-lipped,  he  tended  Miss  Puss 
Whitley's  truck  patch  and  brought  his  products 
to  market  every  morning.  He  had  always  been 
quiet  and  sparing  of  speech;  now  he  was  quiet 
to  the  point  almost  of  dumbness. 

A  month  and  more  went  by,  and  old  Ranee 
didn't  ride  in  from  Gum  Spring,  and  then  the 
Christmas  came.  Christmas  Day  fell  on  a 
Monday  so  that  the  Christmas  itself  properly 
started  on  the  Saturday  before.  It  was  a  warm 
and  a  green  Christmas  as  most  of  them  are  in 
that  climate,  mild  enough  at  midday  for  folks 
to  sit  on  their  front  porches  and  just  cold 
enough  at  night  to  beard  the  grass  with  a 
silver-gray  frost  rime.  Languid  looking  house 
flies  crawled  out  in  the  afternoons  and  cleaned 
their  gummy  wings  while  they  sunned  them 
selves  on  the  southern  sides  of  stables.  The 
Christmas  feeling  was  in  the  air.  At  the 
wharfboat  lay  the  Clyde,  deep  laden  for  her 
annual  jug-trip,  with  thousands  of  bottles  and 

[80] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

jugs  and  demi-johns  consigned  to  the  dry 
towns  up  the  river.  There  was  a  big  side 
walk  trade  going  on  in  fire  crackers  and  rockets, 
the  Christmas  and  not  the  Fourth  being  the 
time  for  squibbing  of  crackers  in  the  South. 
The  market,  though,  was  the  busiest  place  of 
all.  It  fairly  milled  with  people.  Every  hucks 
ter  needed  four  hands,  and  still  he  wouldn't 
have  had  enough. 

Jimmy  Faxon  had  little  Emmy  Hardin  help 
ing  him  through  the  hours  when  the  pressure 
was  greatest  and  the  customers  came  fastest. 
She  kept  close  to  him,  with  little  nestling 
motions,  and  yet  there  was  something  protect 
ing  in  her  attitude,  as  though  she  would  stand 
between  him  and  any  danger,  or  any  criticism. 
The  looks  she  darted  at  him  were  fairly  caress 
ing.  Through  the  jam  appeared  Ranee  Flem 
ing,  elbowing  his  way  roughly.  His  face  above 
his  straggly  whiskers  was  red  with  temper  and 
with  liquor.  His  cotton  shirt  was  open  at  the 
throat  so  that  his  hairy  chest  showed.  His 
shapeless  gray  jeans  trousers  —  gray  originally 
but  now  faded  and  stained  to  a  mud  color  — 
were  both  beltless  and  suspenderless,  and  were 
girthed  tightly  about  his  middle  by  the  strap 
at  the  back.  From  much  ramming  of  his 
hands  into  the  pockets,  they  were  now  crowded 
down  far  upon  his  hips,  showing  an  unwontedly 
long  expanse  of  shirt;  and  this  gave  to  him  an 
abnormally  short-legged,  long-waisted  look. 

A   lot   of   those   little   fuzzy   parasitic   pods 

[81] 


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called  beggar-lice  were  stuck  thick  upon  his 
bagged  knees  —  so  thick  they  formed  irregular 
patterns  in  grayish  green.  He  wore  no  coat 
nor  waistcoat,  but  an  old  mud-stiffened  over 
coat  was  swung  over  his  shoulders  with  the 
arms  tied  loosely  around  his  neck  and  the  skirts 
dangling  in  folds  behind  him;  and  cuckleburrs 
clung  to  a  tear  in  the  lining.  He  was  a  fit 
model  of  unclean  and  unwholesome  ferocity. 

Before  young  Jim  or  little  Emmy  Hardin 
saw  him,  he  was  right  up  on  them;  only  the 
width  of  the  bench  separated  him  from  them. 
He  leaned  across  it  and  called  Jim  that  name 
again  and  slapped  him  in  the  face  with  a  wide- 
armed  sweeping  stroke  of  his  open  hand.  The 
boy  flinched  back  from  the  coming  blow  so 
that  only  the  ends  of  old  Ranee's  flailing  fingers 
touched  his  cheek,  but  the  intent  was  there. 
Before  the  eyes  of  his  sweetheart,  he  had  been 
slapped  in  the  face.  The  girl  gave  a  startled 
choking  gasp  and  tried  to  put  her  arms  about 
young  Jim.  He  shook  her  off. 

Well  content  with  his  work,  old  Ranee  fell 
back,  all  the  time  watching  young  Jim.  People 
gave  way  for  him  involuntarily.  When  he  was 
clear  of  the  shed  he  turned  and  made  for  one 
of  the  saloons  that  lined  the  square  on  its 
western  side.  He  had  a  choice  of  several  such 
places;  the  whole  row  was  given  over  to 
saloons,  barring  only  a  couple  of  cheap  John 
clothing  stores  and  a  harness  store,  and  two  or 
three  small  dingy  pawn  shops.  Pistol  stores 

[82] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

these  last  were,  in  the  vernacular  of  the  darkies, 
being  so  called  because  the  owners  always  kept 
revolvers  and  spring-back  knives  on  display 
in  the  show  windows,  along  with  battered 
musical  instruments  and  cheap  watches. 

The  spectators  followed  old  Ranee's  figure 
with  their  eyes  until  the  swinging  doors  of  the 
nearest  bar  room  closed  behind  him.  When 
they  looked  back  again  toward  Stall  No.  3 
young  Jim  was  gone  too.  He  had  vanished 
silently;  and  Emmy  Hardin  was  alone,  with 
her  face  buried  in  her  arms  and  her  arms 
stretched  across  the  counter,  weeping  as  though 
she  would  never  leave  off. 

From  the  next  stall  there  came  to  her, 
comfortingly,  a  middle  aged  market  woman,  a 
motherly  figure  in  a  gray  shawl  with  puckered 
and  broad  red  hands.  She  lifted  Emmy  up 
and  led  her  away,  calling  out  to  her  nearest 
neighbor  to  watch  her  stall  and  the  Faxon  stall 
until  she  got  back. 

"There's  liable  to  be  trouble,"  she  added, 
speaking  in  a  side  whisper  so  the  sobbing  girl 
wouldn't  hear  what  she  said. 

"I  reckin  not,"  said  the  man.  "It  looks 
to  me  like  Jimmy  Faxon  is  plumb  cowed 
down  and  'feared  of  that  there  old  bush 
whacker  —  it  looks  like  he  ain't  got  the  spirit 
of  a  rabbit  left  in  him.  But  you  take  her  on 
away  somewheres,  Mizz  Futrell  —  me  and  my 
boys  will  'tend  stand  for  both  of  you,  and  you 
needn't  worry." 

[83] 


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Under  such  merciful  guardianship  little 
Emmy  Hardin  was  taken  away  and  so  she 
was  spared  the  sight  of  what  was  to  follow. 

Old  Ranee  stayed  in  the  nearest  saloon 
about  long  enough  to  take  one  drink  and  then 
he  came  out  and  headed  for  the  next  saloon 
along  the  row.  To  reach  it  he  must  pass  one 
of  the  pawn-brokers'  shops.  He  had  just 
passed  it  when  a  sort  of  smothered  warning 
outcry  went  up  from  behind  him  somewhere, 
and  he  swung  round  to  look  his  finish  square 
in  the  face. 

Young  Jim  Faxon  was  stepping  out  of  the 
pawn-broker's  door.  He  was  crying  so  the 
tears  streamed  down  his  face.  His  right  arm 
was  down  at  his  side  stiffly  and  the  hand  held 
clenched  a  weapon  which  the  Daily  Evening 
News  subsequently  described  as  "a  Brown 
&  Rogers  thirty-eight  calibre,  nickle  plated, 
single-action,  with  a  black  rubber  handle,  and 
slightly  rusted  upon  the  barrel." 

Old  Ranee  made  no  move  toward  his  own 
hip  pocket.  It  came  out  at  the  inquest  that 
he  was  not  carrying  so  much  as  a  pen-knife. 
He  half  crouched  and  began  stumbling  back 
ward  toward  the  front  of  the  building  with 
his  arms  out  and  his  hands  making  empty 
pawing  clutches  behind  him  as  though  he  were 
reaching  for  some  solid  support  to  hold  him 
up  in  his  peril.  But  before  he  had  gone  three 
steps,  young  Jim  brought  the  pistol  up  and 
fired  —  just  once. 

[84] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

Once  was  enough.  If  you  had  never  before 
this  seen  a  man  shot,  you  would  have  known 
instinctively  that  this  one  was  mortally  stricken. 
Some  who  were  near  and  looking  right  at  him 
told  afterward  how  the  loose  end  of  one  over 
coat  sleeve,  dangling  down  on  his  breast, 
flipped  up  a  little  at  the  shot.  A  slightly 
pained,  querulous  look  came  into  his  face  and 
he  brought  his  arms  round  and  folded  them 
tightly  across  his  stomach  as  though  taken  with 
a  sudden  cramp.  Then  he  walked,  steadily 
enough,  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  half- 
squatted  as  though  he  meant  to  sit  on  the 
curbing  with  his  feet  in  the  gutter.  He  was 
half  way  down  when  death  took  him  in  his 
vitals.  He  pitched  forward  and  outward  upon 
his  face  with  his  whiskers  flattening  in  the 
street.  Two  men  ran  to  him  and  turned  him 
over  on  his  back.  His  face  had  faded  already 
from  its  angry  red  to  a  yellowish  white,  like 
old  tallow.  He  breathed  hard  once  or  twice 
and  some  thought  they  saw  his  eyelids  bat 
once;  then  his  chest  fell  inward  and  stayed  so, 
and  he  seemed  to  shrink  up  to  less  than  his 
proper  length  and  bulk. 

Young  Jim  stood  still  ten  feet  away  looking 
at  his  handiwork.  He  had  stopped  crying  and 
he  had  dropped  the  pistol  and  was  wiping 
both  hands  flatly  against  the  breast  of  his 
wool  sweater  as  though  to  cleanse  them  of 
something.  Allard  Jones,  the  market-master, 
who  had  police  powers  and  wore  a  blue  coat 

[85] 


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and  a  German  silver  star  to  prove  it,  came 
plowing  through  the  ring  of  on-lookers,  head 
tilt,  and  laid  hands  upon  him.  Allard  Jones 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  pair  of 
steel  nippers  and  made  as  if  to  twine  the  chain 
round  the  boy's  right  wrist. 

"You  don't  need  to  be  putting  those  things 
on  me,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  his  prisoner.  "I'll 
go  all  right  —  I'll  go  with  you.  It's  all  over 
now  —  everything's  over!" 

Part  of  the  crowd  stayed  behind,  forming  a 
scrooging,  shoving  ring  around  the  spot  in  front 
of  Benny  Michelson's  pawn  shop  where  the 
body  of  old  Ranee  lay  face  upward  across  the 
gutter  with  the  stiffening  legs  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  the  oddly  foreshortened  body  out  in  the 
dust  of  the  road;  and  the  rest  followed  Allard 
Jones  and  young  Jim  as  they  walked  side  by 
side  up  Market  Square  to  Court  Street  and 
along  Court  Street  a  short  block  to  the  lock-up. 

The  sympathy  of  the  community  was  with 
young  Jim  —  and  the  law  of  the  land  was  dead 
against  him  on  all  counts.  He  had  not  fired 
in  sudden  heat  and  passion;  there  had  been 
time,  as  the  statutes  measured  time,  for  due 
deliberation.  However  great  the  provocation 
and  by  local  standards  the  provocation  had 
been  great  enough  and  pressing  hard  to  the 
breaking  point,  he  could  not  claim  self-defense. 
Even  though  Fleming's  purpose  had  been, 
ultimately,  to  bring  things  to  a  violent  issue, 
he  was  retreating,  actually,  at  the  moment 

[86] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

itself.  As  a  bar  to  punishment  for  homicide, 
the  plea  of  temporary  insanity  had  never  yet 
been  set  up  in  our  courts.  Jim  Faxon  was 
fast  in  the  snarls  of  the  law. 

From  the  lock-up  he  went  to  the  county  jail, 
the  charge,  wilful  and  premeditated  murder. 
Dr.  Lake  and  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  and  Major 
Covington,  all  customers  of  the  accused,  and 
all  persons  of  property,  stood  ready  to  go  bail 
for  him  in  any  sum  namable,  but  murder  was 
not  bailable.  In  time  a  grand  jury  buttressed 
the  warrant  with  an  indictment  —  murder  in 
the  first  degree,  the  indictment  read  —  and 
young  Jim  stayed  in  jail  awaiting  his  trial 
when  circuit  court  should  open  in  the  spring. 

Nobody,  of  course,  believed  that  his  jury 
would  vote  the  extreme  penalty.  The  dead 
man's  probable  intentions  and  his  past  reputa 
tion,  taken  with  the  prisoner's  youth  and  good 
repute,  would  stand  as  bars  to  that,  no  matter 
how  the  letter  of  the  law  might  read;  but  it 
was  generally  accepted  that  young  Jim  would 
be  found  guilty  of  manslaughter.  He  might 
get  four  years  for  killing  old  Ranee,  or  six 
years  or  even  ten  —  this  was  a  subject  for 
frequent  discussion.  There  was  no  way  out 
of  it.  People  were  sorrier  than  ever  for  Jim 
and  for  his  aunt  and  for  the  tacky,  pretty  little 
Hardin  girl. 

All  through  the  short  changeable  winter, 
with  its  alternate  days  of  snow  flurrying  and 
sunshine,  Emmy  Hardin  and  Miss  Puss  Whitley, 

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a  crushed  forlorn  pair,  together  minded  the 
stall  on  the  market,  accepting  gratefully  the 
silent  sympathy  that  some  offered  them,  and 
the  awkward  words  of  good  cheer  from  others. 
Miss  Puss  put  a  mortgage  of  five  hundred 
dollars  on  her  little  place  out  in  the  edge  of 
town.  With  the  money  she  hired  Dabney 
Prentiss,  the  most  silvery  tongued  orator  of 
all  the  silver  tongues  at  the  county  bar,  to 
defend  her  nephew.  And  every  day,  when 
market  hours  were  over,  in  rain  or  snow  or 
shine,  the  two  women  would  drive  in  their 
truck  wagon  up  to  the  county  jail  to  sit  with 
young  Jim  and  to  stay  with  him  in  his  cell  until 
dark. 

Spring  came  earlier  than  common  that  year. 
The  robins  came  back  from  the  Gulf  in  Febru 
ary  on  the  tail  of  a  wet  warm  thaw.  The 
fruit  trees  bloomed  in  March  and  by  the 
beginning  of  April  everything  was  a  vivid 
green  and  all  the  trees  were  clumped  with  new 
leaves.  Court  opened  on  the  first  Monday. 

On  the  Sunday  night  before  the  first  Mon 
day,  Judge  Priest  sat  on  his  porch  as  the  dusk 
came  on,  laving  his  spirits  in  the  balm  of  the 
young  spring  night.  In  the  grass  below  the 
steps  the  bull-cricket  that  wintered  under  Judge 
Priest's  front  steps  was  tuning  his  fairy-fiddle 
at  regular,  half-minute  intervals.  Bull  bats 
on  the  quest  for  incautious  gnats  and  midges 
were  flickering  overhead,  showing  white  patches 

[88] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

on  the  under  sides  of  their  long  wings.  A 
flying  squirrel,  the  only  night-rider  of  the  whole 
squirrel  tribe,  flipped  out  of  his  hole  in  a  honey 
locust  tree,  and  cocked  his  head  high,  and  then 
he  spread  the  furry  gray  membranes  along  his 
sides  and  sailed  in  a  graceful,  downward  swoop 
to  the  butt  of  a  silver  leaf  poplar,  fifty  feet 
away,  where  he  clung  against  the  smooth  bark 
so  closely  and  so  flatly  he  looked  like  a  little 
pelt  stretched  and  nailed  up  there  to  dry. 

The  front  gate  clicked  and  creaked.  The 
flying  squirrel  flipped  around  to  the  safe  side 
of  his  tree  and  fled  upward  to  the  shelter  of  the 
branches,  like  a  little  gray  shadow,  and  Judge 
Priest,  looking  down  the  aisle  of  shady  trees, 
saw  two  women  coming  up  the  walk  toward 
him,  their  feet  crunching  slowly  on  the  gravel. 
He  laid  his  pipe  aside  and  pulled  chairs  forward 
for  his  callers,  whoever  they  might  be.  They 
were  right  up  to  the  steps  before  he  made  them 
out  —  Miss  Puss  Whitley  and  little  Emmy 
Hardin. 

"Howdy  do,  ladies,"  said  the  old  Judge  with 
his  homely  courtesy.  " Howdy,  Miss  Puss? 
Emmy,  child,  how  are  you?  Come  in  and  set 
down  and  rest  yourselves." 

But  for  these  two,  this  was  no  time  for  the 
small  civilities.  The  weight  of  trouble  at  their 
hearts  knocked  for  utterance  at  their  lips.  Or, 
at  least,  it  was  so  with  the  old  aunt. 

"Jedge  Priest,"  she  began,  with  a  desperate, 
driven  eagerness,  "we've  come  here  tonight 

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to  speak  in  private  with  you  about  my  boy  — 
about  Jimmy." 

In  the  darkness  they  could  not  see  that  the 
old  Judge's  plump  figure  was  stiffening. 

"Did  Mister  Dabney  Prentiss  —  did  any 
one,  send  you  here  to  see  me  on  this  business?" 
he  asked,  quickly. 

"No,  suh,  nobody  a'tall,"  answered  the  old 
woman.  "We  jest  came  on  our  own  accord  — 
we  felt  like  as  if  we  jest  had  to  come  and  see 
you.  Court  opens  in  the  mornin'  and  Jimmy's 
case,  as  you  know,  comes  up  the  first  thing. 
And  oh,  Jedge  Priest,  we  air  in  so  much  trouble, 
Emmy  and  me  —  and  you've  got  the  name  of 
bein'  kind  hearted  to  them  that's  borne  down 
and  in  distress  —  and  so  we  come  to  you." 

He  raised  his  hand,  as  though  to  break  in  on 
her,  but  the  old  woman  was  not  to  be  stopped. 
She  was  pouring  out  the  grievous  burden  of 
her  lament: 

"Jedge  Priest,  you  knowed  my  husband 
when  he  was  alive,  and  you've  knowed  me 
these  many  years.  And  you  know  how  it  was 
in  them  old  days  that's  gone  that  the  Flemings 
was  forever  and  a  day  fightin'  with  my  people 
and  forcin'  trouble  on  'em  'till  finally  they 
hunted  'em  plum'  out  of  the  county  and  out 
of  the  State,  away  from  the  places  where  they 
was  born  and  raised.  And  you  know  Jimmy 
too,  and  know  what  a  hard  time  he  had  growin' 
up,  and  how  he's  always  stood  by  me  and 
helped  me  out,  jest  the  same  as  if  he  was  my 

1901 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

own  son.  And  I  reckin  you  know  about  him  — 
and  Emmy  here." 

She  broke  off  to  wipe  her  eyes.  Had  it  been 
a  man  who  came  on  such  an  errand  the  Judge 
would  have  sent  him  packing  —  he  would 
have  been  at  no  loss  to  put  his  exact  meaning 
into  exact  language;  for  the  Judge  held  his 
place  on  the  bench  in  a  high  and  scriptural 
regard.  But  here,  in  the  presence  of  these 
two  woeful  figures,  their  faces  drenched  and 
steeped  with  sorrow,  he  hesitated,  trying  to 
choose  words  that  would  not  bruise  their 
wounds. 

"Miss  Puss,"  he  said  very  softly,  almost  as 
though  he  were  speaking  to  a  child,  "whatever 
my  private  feelin's  may  be  towards  you  and 
yours,  it  is  not  proper  for  me  as  the  Judge 
upon  the  bench,  to  express  them  in  advance 
of  the  trial.  It  is  my  sworn  duty  to  enforce 
the  law,  as  it  is  written  and  laid  down  in  the 
books.  And  the  law  is  merciful,  and  is  just 
to  all." 

The  old  woman's  angular,  slatty  figure 
straightened.  In  the  falling  light  her  pinched 
and  withered  face  showed,  a  white  patch  with 
deep  grayish  creases  in  it,  the  color  of  snow  in  a 
quick  thaw. 

"The  law!"  she  flared  out,  "the  law,  you 
say,  Jedge.  Well,  you  kin  talk  mighty  big 
about  the  law,  but  what  kind  of  a  law  is  that 
that  lets  a  fightin',  swearin',  drunken  bully 
like  Ranee  Fleming  plague  a  poor  boy  and  call 

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him  out  of  his  name  with  vile  words  and  shame 
him  before  this  child  here,  and  yit  not  do  nothin' 
to  him  for  it?  And  what  kind  of  a  law  is  it 
that'll  send  my  boy  up  yonder  to  that  there 
penitentiary  and  wreck  his  life  and  Emmy's 
life  and  leave  me  here  alone  in  my  old  age, 
ashamed  to  lift  my  head  amongst  my  neighbors 
ever  again?" 

"Madame,"  said  the  Judge  with  all  kindli 
ness  in  his  tone,  "it's  not  for  me  to  discuss 
these  matters  with  you,  now.  It's  not  even 
proper  that  I  should  let  you  say  these  things 
to  me." 

"Oh,  but  Jedge,"  she  said,  "you  must  listen 
to  me,  please.  You  oughter  know  the  truth 
and  there  ain't  no  way  for  you  to  know  it 
without  I  tell  it  to  you.  Jimmy  didn't  want 
no  quarrel  with  that  man  —  it  wasn't  never 
none  of  his  choosin'.  He  tried  not  to  bear  no 
grudge  for  what  had  gone  before  —  he  jest 
craved  to  be  let  alone  and  not  be  pestered. 
Why,  when  Ranee  Fleming  cussed  him  that 
first  time,  last  Fall,  he  come  home  to  me  cryin' 
like  his  heart  would  break.  He  said  he'd  been 
insulted  and  that  he'd  have  to  take  it  up  and 
fight  it  out  with  Ranee  Fleming;  he  felt  like 
he  just  had  to.  But  we  begged  him  on  our 
bended  knees  mighty  nigh,  me  and  Emmy  did, 
not  to  do  nothin'  for  our  sakes  —  and  for  our 
sakes  he  promised  to  let  it  go,  and  say  nothin'. 
Even  after  that,  if  Ranee  Fleming  had  just 
let  him  be,  all  this  tumble  trouble  wouldn't 

[92] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

a-come  on  us.  But  Ranee  Fleming  he  come 
back  again  and  slapped  Jimmy's  face,  and 
Jimmy  knowed  then  that  sooner  or  later  he'd 
have  to  kill  Ranee  Fleming  or  be  killed  his- 
self  —  there  wasn't  no  other  way  out  of  it  for 
him. 

"Jedge  Priest,  he's  been  the  best  prop  a 
lone  woman  ever  had  to  lean  on  —  he's  been 
like  a  son  to  me.  My  own  son  couldn't  a-been 
more  faithful  or  more  lovin'.  I  jest  ask  you 
to  bear  all  these  things  in  mind  tomorrow." 

"I  will,  Madame,"  said  the  old  Judge,  rather 
huskily.  "I  promise  you  I  will.  Your  nephew 
shall  have  a  fair  trial  and  all  his  rights  shall  be 
safe-guarded.  But  that  is  all  I  can  say  to  you 
now." 

Emmy  Hardin,  who  hadn't  spoken  at  all, 
plucked  her  by  the  arm  and  sought  to  lead 
her  away.  Shaking  her  head,  the  old  woman 
turned  away  from  the  steps. 

"Jest  one  minute,  please,  Miss  Puss,"  said 
Judge  Priest,  "I'd  like  to  ask  you  a  question, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  pryin'  into 
your  private  and  personal  affairs;  but  is  it 
true  what  I  hear  —  that  you've  mortgaged  your 
home  place  to  raise  the  money  for  this  boy's 
defense?" 

"I  ain't  begredgin'  the  money,"  she  pro 
tested.  "It  ain't  the  thought  of  that,  that 
brought  me  here  tonight.  I'd  work  my  fingers 
to  the  bone  if  'twould  help  Jimmy  any,  and  so 
would  Emmy  here.  We'd  both  of  us  be  willin* 

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and  ready  to  go  to  the  porehouse  and  live  and 
die  there  if  it  would  do  him  any  good." 

"I  feel  sure  of  that,"  repeated  the  old  Judge 
patiently,  "but  is  it  true  about  this  mortgage?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  she  answered,  and  then  she 
began  to  cry  again,  "it's  true,  but  please  don't 
even  let  Jimmy  know.  He  thinks  I  had  the 
money  saved  up  from  the  marketin'  to  hire 
Mr.  Prentiss  with,  and  I  don't  never  want 
him  to  know  the  truth.  No  matter  how  his 
case  goes  I  don't  never  want  him  to  know." 

They  had  moved  off  down  the  gravel  walk 
perhaps  twenty  feet,  when  suddenly  the  smoul 
dering  feud-hate  stirred  in  the  old  woman's 
blood;  and  it  spread  through  her  and  made  her 
meager  frame  quiver  as  if  with  an  ague.  And 
now  the  words  came  from  her  with  a  hiss  of 
feeling: 

"Jedge  Priest,  that  plague-taken  scoundrel 
deserved  killin'!  He  was  black  hearted  from 
the  day  he  came  into  the  world  and  black 
hearted  he  went  out  of  it.  You  don't  remem 
ber,  maybe  —  you  was  off  soldierin*  at  the 
time  —  when  he  was  jayhawkin'  back  and 
forth  along  the  State  line  here,  burnin*  folks' 
houses  down  over  their  heads  and  mistreatin'  the 
wimmin  and  children  of  them  that  was  away  in 
the  army.  I  tell  you,  durin*  that  last  year  be 
fore  you  all  got  back  home,  there  was  soldiers 
out  after  him — out  with  guns  in  their  hands  and 
orders  to  shoot  him  down  on  sight,  like  a  sheep- 
killin'  dog.  He  didn't  have  no  right  to  live!" 

[94] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

The  girl  got  her  quieted  somehow;  she  was 
sobbing  brokenly  as  they  went  away.  For  a 
long  five  minutes  after  the  gate  clicked  behind 
the  forlorn  pair,  Judge  Priest  stood  on  his 
porch  in  the  attitude  of  one  who  had  been 
pulled  up  short  by  the  stirring  of  a  memory  of 
a  long  forgotten  thing.  After  a  bit  he  reached 
for  his  hat  and  closed  the  front  door.  He 
waddled  heavily  down  the  steps  and  disap 
peared  in  the  aisle  of  the  maples  and  silver  leaf 
trees. 

Half  an  hour  later,  clear  over  on  the  other 
side  of  town,  two  windows  of  the  old  court 
house  flashed  up  as  rectangles  of  light,  set 
into  a  block  of  opaque  blackness.  Passers  by 
idling  homeward  under  the  shade  trees  of  the 
Square,  wondered  why  the  lights  should  be 
burning  in  the  Judge's  chambers.  Had  any 
one  of  them  been  moved  to  investigate  the 
whys  and  wherefores  of  this  phenomenon  he 
would  have  discovered  the  Judge  at  his  desk, 
with  his  steel  bowed  spectacles  balanced  pre 
cariously  on  the  tip  of  his  pudgy  nose  and  his 
round  old  face  pulled  into  a  pucker  of  intense- 
ness  as  he  dug  through  one  sheaf  after  another 
of  musty,  snuffy-smelling  documents.  The 
broad  top  of  the  desk  in  front  of  him  was  piled 
with  windrows  of  these  ancient  papers,  that 
were  gray  along  their  creases  with  the  pigeon 
hole  dust  of  years,  and  seamy  and  buffed  with 
age.  Set  in  the  wall  behind  him  was  a  vault 
and  the  door  of  the  vault  was  open,  and  within 

[95J 


was  a  gap  of  emptiness  on  an  upper  shelf,  which 
showed  where  all  these  papers  had  come  from; 
and  for  further  proof  that  they  were  matters 
of  court  record  there  was  a  litter  of  many 
crumbly  manila  envelopes  bearing  inscriptions 
of  faded  ink,  scattered  about  over  the  desk  top, 
and  on  the  floor  where  they  had  fallen. 

For  a  good  long  time  the  old  Judge  rummaged 
briskly,  pawing  into  the  heaps  in  front  of  him 
and  snorting  briskly  as  the  dust  rose  and  tickled 
his  nostrils.  Eventually  he  restored  most  of 
the  papers  to  their  proper  wrappers  and  replaced 
them  in  the  vault,  and  then  he  began  consulting 
divers  books  out  of  his  law  library  —  ponderous 
volumes,  bound  in  faded  calf  skin  with  splotches 
of  brown,  like  liverspots,  on  their  covers.  It 
was  nearly  midnight  before  he  finished.  He 
got  up  creakily,  and  reaching  on  tiptoe  —  an 
exertion  which  created  a  distinct  hiatus  of 
inches  between  the  bottom  of  his  wrinkled  vest 
and  the  waistband  of  his  trousers  —  he  turned 
out  the  gas  jets.  Instantly  the  old  courthouse, 
sitting  among  the  trees,  became  a  solid  black 
mass.  He  felt  his  way  out  into  the  hallway, 
barking  his  shins  on  a  chair,  and  grunting  softly 
to  himself. 

When  young  Jim  Faxon's  case  was  called 
the  next  morning  and  the  jailor  brought  him 
in,  Jim  wore  hand-cuffs.  At  the  term  of  court 
before  this,  a  negro  cow  thief  had  got  away 
coming  across  the  court  house  yard  and  the 

[96] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

Judge  had  issued  orders  to  the  jailor  to  use 
all  due  precautions  in  future.  So  the  jailor, 
showing  no  favoritism,  had  seen  fit  to  handcuff 
young  Jim.  Moreover,  he  forgot  to  bring 
along  the  key  to  the  irons  and  while  he  was 
hurrying  back  to  the  jail  to  find  it,  young  Jim 
had  to  wait  between  his  women  folk,  with  his 
bonds  still  fast  upon  him.  Emmy  Hardin 
bent  forward  and  put  her  small  hands  over  the 
steel,  as  though  to  hide  the  shameful  sight  of 
it  from  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  and  she  kept  her 
hands  there  until  Jailor  Watts  came  back  and 
freed  Jim.  The  little  group  of  three  sitting  in 
a  row  inside  the  rail,  just  back  of  Lawyer 
Dabney  Prentiss'  erect  and  frock-coated  back, 
were  all  silent  and  all  pale-faced,  young  Jim 
with  the  pallor  of  the  jail  and  Emmy  Hardin 
with  the  whiteness  of  her  grief  and  her  terror, 
but  the  old  aunt's  face  was  a  streaky,  grayish 
white,  and  the  wrinkles  in  her  face  and  in  her 
thin,  corded  neck  looked  inches  deep. 

Right  away  the  case  was  called  and  both 
sides  —  defense  and  commonwealth  —  an 
nounced  as  ready  to  proceed  to  trial.  The 
audience  squared  forward  to  watch  the  picking 
of  the  jurors,  but  there  were  never  to  be  any  ju 
rors  picked  for  the  trial  of  this  particular  case. 

For  Judge  Priest  had  reached  the  point 
where  he  couldn't  hold  in  any  longer.  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  then  he  spoke,  using 
the  careful  English  he  always  used  on  the 
bench  —  and  never  anywhere  else. 

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"Before  we  proceed,"  he  began,  and  his 
tone  told  plainly  enough  that  what  he  meant 
to  say  now  would  be  well  worth  the  hearing, 
"before  we  proceed,  the  court  has  something 
to  say,  which  will  have  a  direct  bearing  upon 
the  present  issue."  He  glanced  about  him 
silently,  commanding  quiet.  "The  defendant 
at  the  bar  stands  charged  with  the  death  of 
one  Ransom  Fleming  and  he  is  produced  here 
to  answer  that  charge." 

From  the  desk  he  lifted  a  time-yellowed, 
legal-looking  paper,  folded  flat;  he  shucked 
it  open  with  his  thumb.  "It  appears,  from  the 
records,  that  in  the  month  of  February  and 
of  the  year  1865,  the  said  Ransom  Fleming, 
now  deceased,  was  a  fugitive  from  justice, 
going  at  large  and  charged  with  divers  and 
sundry  felonious  acts,  to  wit,  the  crime  of 
arson  and  the  crime  of  felonious  assault  with 
intent  to  kill,  and  the  crime  of  confederating 
with  others  not  named,  to  destroy  the  property 
of  persons  resident  in  the  State  of  Kentucky. 
It  appears  further  that  a  disorganized  condition 
of  the  civil  government  existed,  the  State  being 
overrun  with  stragglers  and  deserters  from 
both  armies  then  engaged  in  civil  war,  and 
therefore,  because  of  the  inability  or  the 
failure  of  the  duly  constituted  authorities  to 
bring  to  justice  the  person  charged  with  these 
lawless  and  criminal  acts,  the  Governor  of  this 
State  did  offer  a  reward  of  $500  for  the  appre 
hension  of  Ransom  Fleming,  dead  or  alive." 

[98] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

Now,  for  sure,  the  crowd  knew  something 
pregnant  with  meaning  for  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  was  coming  —  knew  it  without  knowing 
yet  what  shape  it  would  assume.  Heads  came 
forward  row  by  row  and  necks  were  craned 
eagerly. 

"I  hold  here  in  my  hand  an  official  copy  of 
the  proclamation  issued  by  the  Governor  of 
the  State,"  continued  Judge  Priest.  "Under 
its  terms  this  reward  was  open  to  citizens  and 
to  officers  of  the  law  alike.  All  law-abiding 
persons  were  in  fact  urged  to  join  in  ridding 
the  commonwealth  of  this  man.  He  stood 
outside  the  pale  of  the  law,  without  claim  upon 
or  right  to  its  protection. 

"It  would  appear  further,"  —  the  old  Judge's 
whiny  voice  was  rising  now  —  "that  this 
proclamation  was  never  withdrawn,  although 
with  the  passage  of  years  it  may  have  been 
forgotten.  Under  a  strict  construction  of  the 
law  of  the  land  and  of  the  commonwealth, 
it  may  be  held  to  have  remained  in  force  up 
to  and  including  the  date  of  the  death  of  the 
said  Ransom  Fleming.  It  accordingly  devolves 
upon  this  court,  of  its  own  motion,  to  set  aside 
the  indictment  against  the  defendant  at  the 
bar  and  to  declare  him  free  — " 

For  the  time  being  His  Honor  got  no  further 
than  that.  Even  the  stupidest  listener  there 
knew  now  what  had  come  to  pass  —  knew  that 
Judge  Priest  had  found  the  way  to  liberty  for 
young  Jim  Faxon.  Cheering  broke  out  — 

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loud,  exultant  cheering  and  the  stamping  of 
many  feet.  Persons  outside,  on  the  square 
and  in  the  street,  might  have  been  excused  for 
thinking  that  a  dignified  and  orderly  session 
of  court  had  suddenly  turned  into  a  public 
rally  —  a  ratification  meeting.  Most  of  those 
actually  present  were  too  busy  venting  their 
own  personal  satisfaction  to  notice  that  young 
Jim  was  holding  his  sweetheart  and  his  aunt 
in  his  arms;  and  there  was  too  much  noise 
going  on  round  about  them  for  any  one  to  hear 
the  panted  hallelujahs  of  joy  and  relief  that 
poured  from  the  lips  of  the  young  woman  and 
the  old  one. 

The  Judge  pounded  for  order  with  his  gavel, 
pounding  long  and  hard,  before  the  uproar 
simmered  down  into  a  seething  and  boiling  of 
confused,  excited  murmurings. 

"Mister  Sheriff,"  he  ordered,  with  a  seeming 
sternness  which  by  no  means  matched  the  look 
on  his  face,  "keep  order  in  this  court!  If  any 
further  disorder  occurs  here  you  will  arrest 
the  offenders  and  arraign  them  for  contempt." 

The  sheriff's  bushy  eyebrows  expressed  be 
wilderment.  When  it  came  to  arresting  a 
whole  court  house  full  of  people,  even  so 
vigilant  and  earnest-minded  an  official  as  Sheriff 
Giles  Bindsong  hardly  knew  where  to  start  in. 
Nevertheless  he  made  answer  promptly. 

"Yes,  suh,  Your  Honor,"  he  promised,  "I 
will." 

"As   I   was   saying   when   this   interruption 

[100] 


FIVE    HUNDRED    DOLLARS    REWARD 

occurred,"  went  on  the  Judge,  "it  now  de 
volves  upon  the  court  to  discharge  the  defen 
dant  at  the  bar  from  custody  and  to  declare 
him  entitled  to  the  reward  of  $500  placed  upon 
the  head  of  the  late  Ransom  Fleming  by  the 
Governor  of  Kentucky  in  the  year  1865  - 

Young  Jim  Faxon  with  his  arms  still  around 
the  heaving  shoulders  of  the  women,  threw 
his  head  up: 

"No  Judge,  please,  sir,  I  couldn't  touch  that 
money  —  not  that"  -he  began,  but  Judge 
Priest  halted  him: 

"The  late  defendant  not  being  of  legal  age, 
the  court  rules  that  this  reward  when  collected 
may  be  turned  over  to  his  legal  guardian.  It 
may  be  that  she  will  find  a  good  and  proper 
use  to  which  this  sum  of  money  may  be  put." 

This  time,  the  cheering,  if  anything,  was 
louder  even  than  it  had  been  before;  but  when 
the  puzzled  sheriff  looked  around  for  instruc 
tions  regarding  the  proper  course  of  procedure 
in  such  an  emergency,  the  judge  on  the  bench 
was  otherwise  engaged.  The  judge  on  the 
bench  was  exchanging  handshakes  of  an  openly 
congratulatory  nature  with  the  members  of  the 
county  bar  headed  by  Attorney  for  the  Defense 
Dabney  Prentiss. 


101 


IV 

JUDGMENT    COME   TO 
DANIEL 


THE  sidewheel  packet  Belle  of  Memphis 
landed  at  the  wharf,  and  the  personal 
manager   of   Daniel   the   Mystic   came 
up  the  gravel  levee  with  a  darky  behind 
him  toting  his  valises.     That  afternoon  all  of 
the  regular  town  hacks  were  in  use  for  a  Masonic 
funeral,  or  he  could  have  ridden  up  in  solitary 
pomp.     You  felt  on  first  seeing  him  that  he  was 
the  kind  of  person  who  would  naturally  prefer 
to  ride. 

He  was  a  large  man  and,  to  look  at,  very 
impressive.  On  either  lapel  of  his  coat  he 
wore  a  splendid  glittering  golden  emblem.  One 
was  a  design  of  a  gold  ax  and  the  other  was 
an  Indian's  head.  His  watch -charm  was  made 
of  two  animal  claws  —  a  tiger's  claws  I  know 
now  they  must  have  been  —  jointed  together 
at  their  butts  by  a  broad  gold  band  to  form 
a  downward-dropping  crescent.  On  the  middle 
finger  of  his  right  hand  was  a  large  solitaire 

[102] 


A    JUDGMENT     COME    TO     DANIEL 

ring,  the  stone  being  supported  by  golden  eagles 
with  their  wings  interwoven.  His  vest  was 
the  most  magnificent  as  to  colors  and  pattern 
that  I  ever  saw.  The  only  other  vest  that  to 
my  mind  would  in  any  way  compare  with  it  I 
saw  years  later,  worn  by  the  advance  agent 
of  a  trained  dog  and  pony  show. 

From  our  perch  on  the  whittled  railings  of 
the  boat-store  porch  we  viewed  his  advent  into 
our  town.  Steamboats  always  brought  us  to 
the  river  front  it  there  was  no  business  more 
pressing  on  hand,  and  particularly  the  Belle 
of  Memphis  brought  us,  because  she  was  a 
regular  sidewheeler  with  a  double  texas,  and 
rising  suns  painted  on  her  paddle  boxes,  and  a 
pair  of  enormous  gilded  buckhorns  nailed  over 
her  pilot  house  to  show  she  held  the  speed 
record  of  the  White  Collar  Line.  A  big,  red, 
sheet-iron  spread-eagle  was  swung  between  her 
stacks,  and  the  tops  of  the  stacks  were  painted 
red  and  cut  into  sharp  points  like  spearheads. 
She  had  a  string  band  aboard  that  came  out 
on  the  guards  and  played  Suwannee  River 
when  she  was  landing  and  Goodby,  My  Lover, 
Goodby  when  she  pulled  out,  and  her  head  mate 
had  the  loudest  swearing  voice  on  the  river 
and,  as  everybody  knew,  would  as  soon  kill 
you  as  look  at  you,  and  maybe  sooner. 

The  Belle  was  not  to  be  compared  with  any 
of  our  little  sternwheel  local  packets.  Even 
her  two  mud  clerks,  let  alone  her  captain  and 
her  pilots,  wore  uniforms;  and  she  came  all 

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the  way  from  Cincinnati  and  ran  clean  through 
to  New  Orleans,  clearing  our  wharf  of  the 
cotton  and  tobacco  and  the  sacked  ginseng  and 
peanuts  and  such  commonplace  things,  and 
leaving  behind  in  their  stead  all  manner  of 
interesting  objects  in  crates  and  barrels.  Once 
she  brought  a  whole  gipsy  caravan — the  Stanley 
family  it  was  called — men,  women  and  children, 
dogs,  horses,  wagons  and  all,  a  regular  circus 
procession  of  them. 

She  was  due  Tuesdays,  but  generally  didn't 
get  in  until  Wednesdays,  and  old  Captain 
Rawlings  would  be  the  first  to  see  her  smoke 
coiling  in  a  hazy  smudge  over  Livingston 
Point  and  say  the  Belle  was  coming.  Captain 
Rawlings  had  an  uncanny  knack  of  knowing 
all  the  boats  by  their  smokes.  The  news 
would  spread,  and  by  the  time  she  passed  the 
Lower  Towhead  and  was  quartering  across  and 
running  down  past  town,  so  she  could  turn  and 
land  upstream,  there  would  be  a  lot  of  pleasurable 
excitement  on  the  wharf.  The  black  dray 
men  standing  erect  on  their  two-wheeled  craft, 
like  Roman  chariot  racers,  would  whirl  their 
mules  down  the  levee  at  a  perilous  gallop, 
scattering  the  gravel  every  which  way,  and  our 
leisure  class  —  boys  and  darkies  —  and  a  good 
many  of  the  business  men,  would  come  down 
to  the  foot  of  Main  Street  to  see  her  land  and 
watch  the  rousters  swarm  off  ahead  of  the 
bellowing  mates  and  eat  up  the  freight  piles. 
One  trip  she  even  had  white  rousters,  which 

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A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

was  an  event  to  be  remembered  and  talked 
about  afterward.  They  were  grimy  foreigners, 
who  chattered  in  an  outlandish  tongue  instead 
of  chanting  at  their  work  as  regular  rousters 
did. 

This  time  when  the  Belle  of  Memphis  came 
and  the  personal  manager  of  Daniel  the  Mystic 
came  up  the  levee,  half  a  dozen  of  us  were 
there  and  saw  him  coming.  We  ran  down  the 
porch  steps  and  trailed  him  at  a  respectful 
distance,  opinion  being  acutely  divided  among 
us  as  to  what  he  might  be.  He  was  associated 
with  the  great  outer  world  of  amusement  and 
entertainment;  we  knew  that  by  the  circum 
stances  of  his  apparel  and  his  jewels  and  high 
hat  and  all,  even  if  his  whole  bearing  had  not 
advertised  his  calling  as  with  banners.  There 
fore,  we  speculated  freely  as  we  trailed  him. 
He  couldn't  be  the  man  who  owned  the  Eugene 
Robinson  Floating  Palace,  because  the  Floating 
Palace  had  paid  its  annual  visit  months  before 
and  by  now  must  be  away  down  past  the  Lower 
Bends  in  the  bayou  country.  Likewise,  the 
man  who  came  in  advance  of  the  circus  always 
arrived  by  rail  with  a  yellow  car  full  of  circus 
bills  and  many  talented  artists  in  white  overalls. 
I  remember  I  decided  that  he  must  have  some 
thing  to  do  with  a  minstrel  show  —  Beach  & 
Bowers'  maybe,  or  Thatcher,  Primrose  &  West's. 

He  turned  into  the  Richland  House,  with  the 
darky  following  him  with  his  valises  and  us 
following  the  darky;  and  after  he  had  regis- 

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tered,  old  Mr.  Dudley  Dunn,  the  clerk,  let 
us  look  at  the  register.  But  two  or  three  grown 
men  looked  first;  the  coming  of  one  who  was 
so  plainly  a  personage  had  made  some  stir 
among  the  adult  population.  None  there 
present,  though,  could  read  the  name  the 
stranger  had  left  upon  the  book.  Old  Mr. 
Dunn,  who  was  an  expert  at  that  sort  of  thing, 
couldn't  decide  himself  whether  it  was  O.  O. 
Driscoll  or  A.  A.  Davent.  The  man  must 
have  spent  years  practicing  to  be  able  to  pro 
duce  a  signature  that  would  bother  any  hotel 
clerk.  I  have  subsequently  ascertained  that 
there  are  many  abroad  gifted  as  he  was  — 
mainly  traveling  salesmen.  But  if  you  couldn't 
read  his  name,  all  who  ran  might  read  the 
nature  of  his  calling,  for  'twas  there  set  forth 
in  two  colors  —  he  had  borrowed  the  red-ink 
bottle  from  Mr.  Dunn  to  help  out  the  custo 
mary  violet  —  and  done  in  heavy  shaded 
letters  —  "Representing  Daniel  the  Mystic"  — 
with  an  ornamental  flourish  of  scrolls  and 
feathery  beaded  lines  following  after.  The 
whole  took  up  a  good  fourth  of  one  of  Mr. 
Dudley  Dunn's  blue-ruled  pages. 

Inside  of  an  hour  we  were  to  know,  too,  who 
Daniel  the  Mystic  might  be,  for  in  the  hotel 
office  and  in  sundry  store  windows  were  big 
bills  showing  a  likeness  of  a  man  of  magnificent 
mien,  with  long  hair  and  his  face  in  his  hand, 
or  rather  in  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his 
hand,  with  the  thumb  under  the  chin  and  the 

[1061 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

finger  running  up  alongside  the  cheek.  Under 
neath  were  lines  to  the  effect  that  Daniel  the 
Mystic,  Prince  of  Mesmerism  and  Seer  of  the 
Unseen,  was  Coming,  Coming!  Also  that  night 
the  Daily  Evening  News  had  a  piece  about  him. 
He  had  rented  St.  Clair  Hall  for  two  nights 
hand-running  and  would  give  a  mysterious, 
edifying  and  educational  entertainment  deal 
ing  with  the  wonders  of  science  and  baffling 
human  description.  The  preliminaries,  one 
learned,  had  been  arranged  by  his  affable  and 
courteous  personal  representative  now  in  our 
midst,  Mr.  D.  C.  Davello  —  so  old  Mr.  Dudley 
Dunn  was  wrong  in  both  of  his  guesses. 

Next  morning  Daniel  the  Mystic  was  on 
hand,  looking  enough  like  his  pictured  likeness 
to  be  recognized  almost  immediately.  True, 
his  features  were  not  quite  so  massive  and 
majestic  as  we  had  been  led  to  expect,  and  he 
rather  disappointed  us  by  not  carrying  his 
face  in  his  hand,  but  he  was  tall  and  slim  enough 
for  all  purposes  and  wore  his  hair  long  and  was 
dressed  all  in  black.  He  had  long,  slender 
hands,  and  eyes  that,  we  agreed,  could  seem 
to  look  right  through  you  and  tell  what  you 
were  thinking  about. 

For  one  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  unseen 
he  was  fairly  democratic  in  his  minglings  with 
the  people;  and  as  for  D.  C.  Davello,  no  one, 
not  even  a  candidate,  could  excel  him  in 
cordiality.  Together  they  visited  the  office  of 
the  Daily  Evening  News  and  also  the  office 

[107] 


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of  our  other  paper,  the  Weekly  Argus-Eye, 
which  was  upstairs  over  Leaken's  job-printing 
shop.  They  walked  through  the  market  house 
and  went  to  the  city  hall  to  call  on  the  mayor 
and  the  city  marshal  and  invite  them  to  come 
to  St.  Clair  Hall  that  night  and  bring  their 
families  with  them,  free  of  charge.  Skinny 
Collins,  who  was  of  their  tagging  juvenile  escort, 
at  once  began  to  put  on  airs  before  the  rest. 
The  city  marshal  was  his  father. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  they  went 
into  Felsburg  Brothers  Oak  Hall  Clothing 
Emporium,  steered  by  Van  Wallace,  who 
seemed  to  be  showing  them  round.  We  fol 
lowed  in  behind,  half  a  dozen  or  more  of  us, 
scuffling  our  dusty  bare  feet  on  the  splintery 
floor  between  the  aisles  of  racked-up  coats. 
In  the  rear  was  Willie  Richey,  limping  along 
on  one  toe  and  one  heel.  Willie  Richey  always 
had  at  least  one  stone  bruise  in  the  stone-bruise 
season,  and  sometimes  two. 

They  went  clear  back  to  the  end  of  the  store 
where  the  office  was  and  the  stove,  but  we, 
holding  our  distance,  halted  by  the  counter 
where  they  kept  the  gift  suspenders  and  neck 
ties  —  Felsburg  Brothers  gave  a  pair  of  sus 
penders  or  a  necktie  with  every  suit,  the  choice 
being  left  to  the  customer  and  depending  on 
whether  in  his  nature  the  utilitarian  or  the 
decorative  instinct  was  in  the  ascendency. 
We  halted  there,  all  eyes  and  ears  and  wriggling 
young  bodies.  The  proprietors  advanced  and 

[108] 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

some  of  the  clerks,  and  Van  Wallace  introduced 
the  visitors  to  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  and  to 
Mr.  Ike  Felsburg,  his  brother.  Mr.  Herman 
said,  "Pleased  to  meetcher,"  with  professional 
warmth,  while  Mr.  Ike  murmured,  "Didn't 
catch  the  name?"  inquiringly,  such  being  the 
invariable  formula  of  these  two  on  greeting 
strangers.  Cigars  were  passed  round  freely 
by  D.  C.  Davello.  He  must  have  carried  a 
pocketful  of  cigars,  for  he  had  more  of  them 
for  some  of  the  business  men  who  came  drop 
ping  in  as  if  by  chance.  All  of  a  sudden  Van 
Wallace,  noting  how  the  group  had  grown, 
said  it  would  be  nice  if  the  professor  would 
show  us  what  he  could  do.  D.  C.  Davello 
said  it  wasn't  customary  for  Daniel  the  Mystic 
to  vulgarize  his  art  by  giving  impromptu 
demonstrations,  but  perhaps  he  would  make 
an  exception  just  for  this  once.  He  spoke  to 
Daniel  the  Mystic  who  was  sitting  silently  in 
the  Messrs.  Felsburg's  swivel  office-chair  with 
his  face  in  his  hands  —  the  poster  likeness  was 
vindicated  at  last  —  and  after  a  little  arguing 
he  got  up  and  looked  all  about  him  slowly  and 
in  silence.  His  eye  fell  on  the  little  huddle  of 
small  boys  by  the  necktie  counter  and  he  said 
sharp  and  quick  to  Jack  Irons:  "Come  here, 
boy!" 

I  don't  know  yet  how  Jack  Irons  came  to 
be  of  our  company  on  that  day;  mostly  Jack 
didn't  run  with  us.  He  was  sickly.  He  had 
spells  and  was  laid  up  at  home  a  good  deal. 

[1091 


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He  couldn't  even  go  barefooted  in  summer, 
because  if  he  did  his  legs  would  be  broken  out 
all  over  with  dew  poison  in  no  time. 

Jack  Irons  didn't  belong  to  one  of  the  promi 
nent  families  either.  He  lived  in  a  little  brown 
house  on  the  street  that  went  down  by  the  old 
Enders  place.  His  mother  was  dead,  and  his 
sister  worked  in  the  county  clerk's  office  and 
always  wore  black  alpaca  sleeves  buttoned  up 
on  her  forearms.  His  father  was  old  Mr.  Gid 
Irons  that  stayed  in  Scotter's  hardware  store. 
He  didn't  own  the  store,  he  just  clerked  there. 
Winter  and  summer  he  passed  by  our  house 
four  times  a  day,  going  to  work  in  the  morning 
and  coming  back  at  night,  coming  to  dinner  at 
twelve  o'clock  and  going  back  at  one.  He  was 
so  regular  that  people  used  to  say  if  the  whistle 
on  Langstock's  planing  mill  ever  broke  down 
they  could  still  set  the  clocks  by  old  Mr.  Gid 
Irons.  Perhaps  you  have  known  men  who 
were  universally  called  old  while  they  were  yet 
on  the  up-side  of  middle  life?  Mr.  Gid  Irons 
was  such  a  one  as  that. 

I  used  to  like  to  slip  into  Scotter's  just  to  see 
him  scooping  tenpenny  nails  and  iron  bolts 
out  of  open  bins  and  kegs  with  his  bare  hands. 
Digging  his  hands  down  into  those  rusty, 
scratchy  things  never  seemed  to  bother  him, 
and  it  was  fascinating  to  watch  him  and  gave 
you  little  flesh-crawling  sensations.  He  was 
a  silent,  small  man,  short  but  very  erect,  and 
when  he  walked  he  brought  his  heels  down  very 

[110] 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

hard  first.  The  skin  of  his  face  and  of  his  hands 
and  his  hair  and  mustache  were  all  a  sort  of 
faded  pinkish  red,  and  he  nearly  always  had 
iron  rust  on  his  fingers,  as  though  to  advertise 
that  his  name  was  Irons. 

By  some  boy  intuition  of  my  own  I  knew 
that  he  cut  no  wide  swath  in  the  lazy  field  of 
town  life.  When  the  veterans  met  at  the  city 
hall  and  organized  their  veterans'  camp  and 
named  it  the  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp,  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  they  could  be  offering  that 
honor  to  our  old  Mr.  Gid  Irons.  I  took  it  as 
a  thing  granted  that  there  were  some  other 
Gideon  Irons  somewhere,  one  with  a  K  in  his 
name,  a  general  probably,  and  no  doubt  a 
grand  looking  man  on  a  white  horse  with  a 
plume  in  his  hat  and  a  sword  dangling,  like 
the  steel  engraving  of  Robert  E.  Lee  in  our 
parlor.  Whereas  our  Mr.  Irons  was  shabby 
and  poor;  he  didn't  even  own  the  house  he 
lived  in. 

I  This  Jack  Irons  who  was  with  us  that  day 
was  his  only  son,  and  when  Daniel  the  Mystic 
looked  at  him  and  called  him,  Jack  stepped  out 
from  our  midst  and  went  toward  him,  his  feet 
dragging  a  little  and  moving  as  if  some  one 
had  him  by  the  shoulders  leading  him  forward. 
His  thin  arms  dangled  at  his  sides.  He  went 
on  until  he  was  close  up  to  Daniel  the  Mystic. 
The  man  threw  up  one  hand  and  snapped  out 
"Stop,"  as  though  he  were  teaching  tricks  to 
a  dog,  and  Jack  flinched  and  dodged.  He 

[HI] 


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stopped  though,  with  red  spots  coming  and 
going  in  the  cheeks  as  though  under  the  stoking 
of  a  blowpipe,  and  he  breathed  in  sharp  puffs 
that  pulled  his  nostrils  almost  shut.  Standing 
so,  he  looked  as  poor  and  weak  and  futile  as  a 
sprig  of  bleached  celery,  as  a  tow  string,  as 
a  limp  rag,  as  anything  helpless  and  spineless 
that  you  had  a  mind  to  think  of.  The  picture 
of  him  has  hung  in  my  mind  ever  since.  Even 
now  I  recall  how  his  meager  frame  quivered  as 
Daniel  the  Mystic  stooped  until  his  eyes  were 
on  a  level  with  Jack's  eyes,  and  said  something 
to  Jack  over  and  over  again  in  a  half -whisper. 

Suddenly  his  hands  shot  out  and  he  began 
making  slow  stroking  motions  downward  before 
Jack's  face,  with  his  fingers  outstretched  as 
though  he  were  combing  apart  hanks  of  invisible 
yarn.  Next  with  a  quick  motion  he  rubbed 
Jack's  eyelids  closed,  and  massaged  his  temples 
with  his  thumbs,  and  then  stepped  back. 

There  stood  Jack  Irons  with  his  eyes  shut, 
fast  asleep.  He  was  still  on  his  feet,  bolt 
upright,  but  fast  asleep  —  that  was  the  marvel 
of  it  —  with  his  hands  at  his  side  and  the 
flushed  color  all  gone  from  his  cheeks.  It 
scared  us  pretty  badly,  we  boys.  I  think  some 
of  the  grown  men  were  a  little  bit  scared  too. 
We  were  glad  that  none  of  us  had  been  singled 
out  for  this,  and  yet  envious  of  Jack  and  his 
sudden  elevation  to  prominence  and  the  center 
of  things. 

Daniel    the    Mystic    seemed    satisfied.     He 

[1121 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

mopped  drops  of  sweat  off  his  face.  He  forked 
two  fingers  and  darted  them  like  a  snake's 
tongue  at  Jack,  and  Jack,  still  asleep,  obeyed 
them,  as  if  he  had  been  steel  and  they  the  two 
horns  of  a  magnetic  horseshoe.  He  swayed 
back  and  forth,  and  then  Daniel  the  Mystic 
gave  a  sharp  shove  at  the  air  with  the  palms 
of  both  hands  —  and  Jack  fell  backward  as 
though  he  had  been  hit. 

But  he  didn't  fall  as  a  boy  would,  doubling 
up  and  giving  in.  He  fell  stiff,  like  a  board, 
without  a  bend  in  him  anywhere.  Daniel  the 
Mystic  leaped  forward  and  caught  him  before 
he  struck,  and  eased  him  down  flat  on  his  back 
and  folded  his  arms  up  across  his  breast,  and 
that  made  him  look  like  dead. 

More  wonders  were  coming.  Daniel  the 
Mystic  and  D.  C.  Davello  hauled  two  wooden 
chairs  up  close  together  and  placed  them  facing 
each  other;  then  lifting  Jack,  still  rigid  and 
frozen,  they  put  his  head  on  the  seat  of  one 
chair  and  his  heels  on  the  seat  of  the  other  and 
stepped  back  and  left  him  suspended  there  in  a 
bridge.  We  voiced  our  astonishment  in  an 
anthem  of  gasps  and  overlapping  exclamations. 
Not  one  of  us  in  that  town,  boy  or  man, 
had  ever  seen  a  person  in  hypnotic  catalepsy. 

Before  we  had  had  time  enough  to  take  this 
marvel  all  in,  Daniel  the  Mystic  put  his  foot 
on  Jack  and  stepped  right  up  on  his  stomach, 
balancing  himself  and  teetering  gently  above 
all  our  heads.  He  was  tall  and  must  have 

[113] 


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been  heavy;  for  Jack's  body  bent  and  swayed 
under  the  weight,  yet  held  it  up  in  the  fashion 
of  a  hickory  springboard.  Some  of  the  men 
jumped  up  then  and  seemed  about  to  inter 
fere.  Old  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg's  face  was 
red  and  he  sputtered,  but  before  he  could  get 
the  words  out  Daniel  the  Mystic  was  saying 
soothingly: 

"Be  not  alarmed,  friends.  The  subject  is 
in  no  danger.  The  subject  feels  no  pain  and 
will  suffer  no  injury." 

"Just  the  same,  Mister,  you  get  down  off 
that  little  boy,"  ordered  Mr.  Felsburg.  "And 
you  please  wake  him  up  right  away.  I  don't 
care  much  to  see  things  done  like  that  in  my 
store." 

"As  you  say,"  said  Daniel  the  Mystic  easily, 
smiling  all  round  him  at  the  ring  of  our  startled 
faces.  "I  merely  wished  to  give  you  a  small 
demonstration  of  my  powers.  And,  believe 
me,  the  subject  feels  no  pain  whatsoever." 

He  stepped  off  of  him,  though,  and  Jack's 
body  came  up  straight  and  flat  again.  They 
lifted  him  off  the  chairs  and  straightened  him 
up,  and  Daniel  the  Mystic  made  one  or  two 
rapid  passes  in  front  of  his  face.  Jack  opened 
his  eyes  and  began  to  cry  weakly.  One  of  the 
clerks  brought  him  a  drink,  but  he  couldn't 
swallow  it  for  sobbing,  and  only  blubbered  up 
the  water  when  Mr.  Felsburg  held  the  glass 
to  his  lips.  Van  Wallace,  who  looked  a  little 
frightened  and  uneasy  himself,  gave  two  of  the 

[114] 


"BE   NOT   ALARMED,    FRIENDS. 
THE   SUBJECT  IS   IN   NO   DANGER." 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

boys  a  nickel  apiece  and  told  us  we  had  better 
get  Jack  home. 

Jack  could  walk  all  right,  with  one  of  us  upon 
either  side  of  him,  but  he  was  crying  too  hard 
to  answer  the  questions  we  put  to  him,  we 
desiring  exceedingly  to  know  how  he  felt  and 
if  he  knew  anything  while  he  was  asleep.  Just 
as  we  got  him  to  his  own  gate  he  gasped  out, 
"Oh,  fellows,  I'm  sick!"  and  collapsed  bodily 
at  our  feet,  hiccoughing  and  moaning.  His 
sister  met  us  at  the  door  as  we  lugged  Jack  in 
by  his  arms  and  legs.  Even  at  home  she  had 
her  black  alpaca  sleeves  buttoned  up  to  her 
elbows.  I  think  she  must  have  slept  in  them. 
We  told  her  what  had  happened,  or  tried  to 
tell  her,  all  of  us  talking  at  once,  and  she  made 
us  lay  Jack  on  a  little  rickety  sofa  in  their 
parlor  —  there  was  a  sewing  machine  in  there, 
too,  I  noticed  —  and  as  we  were  coming  away 
we  saw  a  negro  girl  who  worked  for  them 
running  across  the  street  to  Tillman  &  Son's 
grocery  where  there  was  a  telephone  that  the 
whole  neighborhood  used. 

When  I  got  home  it  was  suppertime  and  the 
family  were  at  the  table.  My  sister  said  some 
body  must  be  sick  down  past  the  old  Enders 
place,  because  she  had  seen  Doctor  Lake  driving 
out  that  way  as  fast  as  his  horse  would  take 
him.  But  I  listened  with  only  half  an  ear, 
being  mentally  engaged  elsewhere.  I  was 
wondering  how  I  was  going  to  get  my  berry- 
picking  money  out  of  a  nailed-up  cigar-box 

[1151 


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savings  bank  without  attracting  too  much 
attention  on  the  part  of  other  members  of  the 
family.  I  had  been  saving  up  that  money 
hoping  to  amass  seventy-five  cents,  which 
was  the  lowest  cash  price  for  Tom  Birch's 
tame  flying  squirrel,  a  pet  thing  that  would 
stay  in  your  pocket  all  day  and  not  bite  you 
unless  you  tried  to  drag  him  out;  but  now  I 
had  a  better  purpose  in  view  for  my  accumulated 
funds.  If  it  took  the  last  cent  I  meant  to  be 
in  St.  Clair  Hall  that  night. 

There  was  no  balcony  in  St.  Clair  Hall,  but 
only  a  sort  of  little  hanging  coop  up  above 
where  the  darkies  sat,  and  the  fifteen-cent  seats 
were  the  two  back  rows  of  seats  on  the  main 
floor.  These  were  very  handy  to  the  door  but 
likely  to  be  overly  warm  on  cold  nights,  when 
the  two  big,  pearshaped  stoves  would  be  red 
hot,  with  the  live  coals  showing  through  the 
cracks  in  their  bases  like  broad  grins  on  the 
faces  of  apoplectic  twins.  The  cracked  varnish 
upon  the  back  of  the  seats  would  boil  and 
bubble  visibly  then  and  the  scorching  wood 
grow  so  hot  you  couldn't  touch  your  bare 
hand  to  it,  and  a  fine,  rich,  turpentiny  smell 
would  savor  up  the  air. 

Being  the  first  of  the  boys  to  arrive  I  secured 
the  coveted  corner  seat  from  which  you  had  a 
splendid  view  of  the  stage,  only  slightly  ob 
scured  by  one  large  wooden  post  painted  a  pale 
sick  blue.  D.  C.  Davello  was  at  the  door 
taking  tickets,  along  with  Sid  Farrell,  who  ran 

[1161 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

St.  Clair  Hall.  It  kept  both  of  them  pretty 
busy,  because  there  were  men  paying  their 
way  in  whom  I  had  never  seen  there  at  all 
except  when  the  Democrats  had  their  rally 
just  before  election,  or  when  the  ladies  were 
holding  memorial  services  on  President  Jeffer 
son  Davis'  birthday  —  men  like  old  Judge 
Priest,  and  Major  Joe  Sam  Covington,  who 
owned  the  big  tan  yard,  and  Captain  Howell, 
the  bookdealer,  and  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg, 
and  Doctor  Lake,  and  a  lot  of  others.  Most 
of  them  took  seats  well  down  in  front,  I  sup 
posing  that  the  educational  and  scientific 
features  of  the  promised  entertainment  had 
drawn  them  together. 

The  curtain  was  cracked  through  in  places 
and  had  a  peephole  in  the  middle,  with  black 
smudges  round  it  like  a  bruised  eye.  It  had  a 
painting  on  it  showing  a  street  full  of  back 
water  clean  up  to  the  houses,  and  some  elegant 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  fancy-dress  costumes 
coming  down  the  stone  steps  of  a  large  building 
like  a  county  courthouse  and  getting  into  a 
couple  of  funny-looking  skiffs.  I  seem  to  have 
heard  somewhere  that  this  represented  a  street 
scene  in  Venice,  but  up  until  the  time  St.  Clair 
Hall  burned  down  I  know  that  I  considered 
it  to  be  a  picture  of  some  other,  larger  town 
than  ours  during  a  spring  rise  in  the  river,  the 
same  as  we  had  every  March.  All  round  the 
inundated  district  were  dirty  white  squares 
containing  the  lettered  cards  of  business  houses 

1117] 


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-  Doctor  Cupps,  the  dentist,  and  Anspach, 
the  Old-Established  Hatter  —  which  never 
varied  from  year  to  year,  even  when  an  adver 
tiser  died  or  went  out  of  business.  We  boys 
knew  these  signs  by  heart. 

But  to  pass  the  time  of  waiting  we  read  them 
over  and  over  again,  until  the  curtain  rolled 
up  disclosing  the  palace  scene,  with  a  double 
row  of  chairs  across  the  stage  in  half-moon 
formation,  and  down  in  front,  where  the  villains 
died  at  regular  shows,  a  table  with  a  water 
pitcher  on  it.  Daniel  the  Mystic  came  out 
of  the  wings  and  bowed,  and  there  was  a  thin 
splashing  of  hand-clapping,  mostly  from  the 
rear  seats,  with  Sid  Farrell  and  D.  C.  Davello 
furnishing  lustier  sounds  of  applause.  First 
off  Daniel  the  Mystic  made  a  short  speech  full 
of  large,  difficult  words.  We  boys  wriggled 
during  it,  being  anxious  for  action.  We  had 
it  soon.  D.  C.  Davello  mounted  the  stage  and 
he  and  Daniel  the  Mystic  brought  into  view  a 
thing  they  called  a  cabinet,  but  which  looked 
to  us  like  a  box  frame  with  black  calico  curtains 
nailed  on  it.  When  they  got  this  placed  to 
their  satisfaction,  Daniel  the  Mystic,  smiling 
in  a  friendly  way,  asked  that  a  committee  of 
local  citizens  kindly  step  up  and  see  that  no 
fraud  or  deception  was  practiced  in  what  was 
about  to  follow.  I  was  surprised  to  see  Doctor 
Lake  and  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  rise  promptly 
at  the  invitation  and  go  up  on  the  stage,  where 
they  watched  closely  while  D.  C.  Davello  tied 

[1181 


A     JUDGMENT     GOME     TO     DANIEL 

Daniel  the  Mystic's  hands  behind  him  with 
white  ropes,  and  then  meshed  him  to  a  chair 
inside  the  cabinet  with  so  many  knottings  and 
snarlings  of  the  twisted  bonds  that  he  looked 
like  some  long,  black  creature  helplessly  caught 
in  a  net.  This  done,  the  two  watchers  slipped 
into  chairs  at  opposite  ends  of  the  half-moon 
formation.  D.  C.  Davello  laid  a  tambourine,  a 
banjo  and  a  dinner  bell  on  the  bound  man's 
knees  and  whipped  the  calico  draperies  to. 
Instantly  the  bell  rang,  the  banjo  was  thrummed 
and  the  tambourine  rattled  giddily,  and  white 
hands  flashed  above  the  shielding  draperies. 
But  when  the  manager  cried  out  and  jerked  the 
curtains  back,  there  sat  the  Mystic  one  still  a 
prisoner,  tied  up  all  hard  and  fast.  We  ap 
plauded  then  like  everything. 

The  manager  unroped  him  and  went  back 
to  his  place  by  the  door,  and  after  Daniel  the 
Mystic  had  chafed  his  wrists  where  the  red 
marks  of  the  cords  showed  he  came  down  a  sort 
of  little  wooden  runway  into  the  audience,  and 
standing  in  the  aisle  said  something  about 
now  giving  a  demonstration  of  something.  I 
caught  the  words  occultism  and  spiritualism, 
both  strangers  to  my  understanding  up  to 
that  time.  He  put  his  hands  across  his  eyes 
for  a  moment,  with  his  head  thrown  back, 
and  then  he  walked  up  the  aisle  four  or  five 
steps  hesitating  and  faltering,  and  finally  halted 
right  alongside  of  Mr.  Morton  Harrison,  the 
wharf  master. 

[1191 


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"I  seem,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  deep,  solemn 
voice,  "to  see  a  dim  shape  of  a  young  man 
hovering  here.  I  get  the  name  of  Claude  — 
no,  no,  it  is  Clyde.  Clyde  would  tell  you," 
his  voice  sank  lower  and  quavered  effectively  - 
"Clyde  says  to  tell  you  that  he  is  very  happy 
over  there  —  he  says  you  must  not  worry  about 
a  certain  matter  that  is  now  worrying  you  for 
it  will  all  turn  out  for  the  best  —  and  you  will 
be  happy.  And  now  Clyde  seems  to  be  fading 
away.  Clyde  is  gone!" 

We  didn't  clap  our  hands  at  that  —  it  would 
have  been  too  much  like  clapping  hands  at  a 
funeral  —  because  we  knew  it  must  be  Clyde 
Harrison,  who  had  got  drowned  not  two 
months  before  trying  to  save  a  little  girl  that 
fell  overboard  off  the  wharfboat.  Just  a  day 
or  two  before  there  had  been  a  piece  in  the 
paper  telling  about  the  public  fund  that  was 
being  raised  to  put  a  monument  over  Clyde's 
grave. 

So  we  couldn't  applaud  that,  wonderful  as 
it  was,  and  we  shivered  in  a  fearsome,  wholly 
delightful  anticipation  and  sat  back  and  waited 
for  more  spirits  to  come.  But  seemingly  there 
weren't  any  more  spirits  about  just  then,  and 
after  a  little  Daniel  the  Mystic  returned  to  the 
stage  and  announced  that  we  would  now  have 
the  crowning  achievement  of  the  evening's 
entertainment  —  a  scientific  exhibition  of  the 
new  and  awe-inspiring  art  of  mesmerism  in  all 
its  various  branches. 

[1201 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

"For  this,"  he  stated  impressively,  "I  desire 
the  aid  of  volunteers  from  the  audience,  promis 
ing  them  that  I  will  do  them  no  harm,  but  on 
the  contrary  will  do  them  much  good.  I  want 
fellow  townspeople  of  yours  for  this  —  gentle 
men  in  whom  you  all  have  confidence  and 
respect.  I  insist  only  upon  one  thing  —  that 
they  shall  be  one  and  all  total  strangers  to  me." 

He  advanced  to  the  tin  trough  of  the  flick 
ering  gas  footlights  and  smiled  out  over  it 
at  us. 

"Who  among  you  will  come  forward  now? 
Come!" 

Before  any  one  else  could  move,  two  young 
fellows  got  up  from  seats  in  different  parts  of  the 
hall  and  went  up  the  little  runway.  We  had 
never  seen  either  of  them  before,  which  seemed 
a  strange  thing,  for  we  boys  kept  a  sharp  eye 
upon  those  who  came  and  went.  They  were 
both  of  them  tall  and  terribly  thin,  with  lank 
hair  and  listless  eyes,  and  they  moved  as  though 
their  hip  joints  were  rusty  and  hurt  them.  But 
I  have  seen  the  likes  of  them  often  since  then  - 
lying  in  a  trance  in  a  show  window,  with  the 
covers  puckered  close  up  under  the  drawn  face. 
I  have  peered  down  a  wooden  chute  to  see  such 
a  one  slumbering  in  his  coffin  underground  for 
a  twenty-four  or  forty-eight-hour  test.  But 
these  were  the  first  of  the  tribe  our  town  had 
encountered. 

On  their  lagging  heels  followed  two  that  I 
did  know.  One  was  the  lumpish  youth  who 

[121] 


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helped  Riley  Putnam  put  up  showbills  and  the 
other  was  Buddy  Grogan,  who  worked  in  Sid 
Farrell's  livery  stable.  Both  of  them  were 
grinning  sheepishly  and  falling  over  their  own 
feet.  And  following  right  behind  them  in  turn 
came  a  shabby  little  man  who  had  iron  rust 
on  his  clothes,  and  walked  all  reared  back, 
bringing  his  heels  down  hard  with  thumps  at 
every  step.  It  was  old  Mr.  Gid  Irons.  We 
gaped  at  him. 

I  had  never  seen  Mr.  Gid  Irons  at  St.  Clair 
Hall  before,  none  of  us  had;  and  in  our  limited 
capacities  we  were  by  way  of  being  consistent 
patrons  of  the  drama.  In  a  flash  it  came  over 
me  that  Jack  must  have  told  his  father  what 
a  wonderful  sensation  it  was  to  be  put  to  sleep 
standing  up  on  your  feet,  and  that  his  father 
had  come  to  see  for  himself  how  it  felt.  I  judged 
that  others  besides  us  were  surprised.  There 
was  a  burring  little  stir,  and  some  of  the  audi 
ence  got  up  and  edged  down  closer  to  the 
front. 

Mr.  Gid  Irons  went  on  up  the  little  runway 
and  took  a  seat  near  one  end  of  the  half -moon 
of  chairs.  Where  he  sat  the  blowy  glare  of  one 
of  the  gas  footlights  flickered  up  in  his  face  and 
we  could  see  that  it  seemed  redder  than  com 
mon,  and  his  eyes  were  drawn  together  so  close 
that  only  little  slits  of  them  showed  under  his 
red-gray,  bushy  eyebrows.  But  that  might 
have  been  the  effect  of  the  gaslight  at  his 
feet.  You  could  tell  though  that  Daniel  the 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

Mystic  was  puzzled  and  perplexed,  startled 
almost,  by  the  appearance  of  this  middle-aged 
person  among  his  volunteers.  He  kept  eyeing 
him  furtively  with  a  worried  line  between  his 
eyes  as  he  made  a  round  of  the  other  four, 
shaking  hands  elaborately  with  each  and  bend 
ing  to  find  out  the  names.  He  came  to  Mr. 
Irons  last. 

"And  what  is  the  name  of  this  friend?"  he 
asked  in  his  grand,  deep  voice. 

Mr.  Irons  didn't  answer  a  word.  He  stood 
up,  just  so,  and  hauled  off  and  hit  Daniel  the 
Mystic  in  the  face.  Daniel  the  Mystic  said 
"Ouch!"  in  a  loud,  pained  tone  of  voice,  and 
fell  backward  over  a  chair  and  sat  down  hard 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  stage.  George 
Muller,  the  town  wit,  declared  afterward  that 
he  was  looking  right  at  Daniel  the  Mystic,  and 
that  Daniel  the  Mystic  sat  down  so  hard  it 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle. 

I  heard  somebody  behind  me  make  a  choking 
outcry  and  turned  to  see  D.  C.  Davello  just 
bursting  in  upon  us,  with  shock  and  surprise 
spreading  all  over  his  face.  But  just  at  that 
precise  moment  Fatty  McManus,  who  was  the 
biggest  man  in  town,  jumped  up  with  an  awk 
ward  clatter  of  his  feet  and  stumbled  and  fell 
right  into  D.  C.  Davello,  throwing  his  mighty 
arms  about  him  as  he  did  so.  Locked  together 
they  rolled  backward  out  of  the  door,  and  with 
a  subconscious  sense  located  somewhere  in  the 
back  part  of  my  skull  I  heard  them  go  bumping 

[123] 


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down  the  steep  stairs.  I  think  there  were  ten 
distinct  bumps. 

David  Pry  or,  one  of  our  policemen,  was 
sitting  almost  directly  in  front  of  me.  He 
had  been  a  policeman  only  two  or  three  months 
and  was  the  youngest  of  the  three  who  policed 
the  town  at  nights.  When  old  Mr.  Gid  Irons 
knocked  Daniel  the  Mystic  down  David  Pryor 
bounced  out  of  his  seat  and  called  out  some 
thing  and  started  to  run  toward  them. 

Old  Judge  Priest  blocked  his  way  on  the 
instant,  filling  the  whole  of  the  narrow  aisle. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "where  you  aimin'  to  go  to?" 

"Lemme  by,  Judge,"  sputtered  David  Pryor; 
"there's  a  fight  startin'  up  yonder!" 

Judge  Priest  didn't  budge  a  visible  inch, 
except  to  glance  quickly  backward  over  his 
shoulder  toward  the  stage. 

"Son,"  he  asked,  "it  takes  two,  don't  it, 
to  make  a  fight?" 

"Yes,"  panted  David  Pryor,  trying  to  get 
past  him,  "yes,  but " 

"Well,  son,  if  you'd  take  another  look  up 
there  you'd  see  there's  only  one  person  en 
gaged  in  fightin'  at  this  time.  That's  no  fight 
—  only  a  merited  chastisement." 

"A  chesty  which?"  asked  David  Pryor, 
puzzled.  He  was  young  and  new  to  his  job 
and  full  of  the  zeal  of  duty.  But  Judge  Priest 
stood  for  law  and  order  embodied,  and  David 
Pryor  wavered. 

"David,   my   son,"   said   Judge   Priest,    "if 

[124] 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

you,  a  sworn  officer  of  the  law,  don't  know  what 
chastisement  means  you  ought  to.  Set  down 
by  me  here  and  I'll  try  to  explain  its  meanin's." 
He  took  him  by  the  arm  and  pulled  the  be 
wildered  young  policeman  down  into  a  seat 
alongside  his  own  and  held  him  there,  though 
David  was  still  protesting  and  struggling  feebly 
to  be  loose. 

This  I  heard  and  saw  out  of  a  corner  of  my 
mind,  the  rest  of  me  being  concentrated  on 
what  was  going  on  up  on  the  stage  among 
the  overturning  chairs  and  those  scattering 
recruits  in  the  cause  of  mesmerism.  I  saw 
Daniel  the  Mystic  scramble  to  his  feet  and 
skitter  about.  He  was  wildly,  furiously  pained 
and  bewildered.  It  must  be  painful  in  the 
extreme,  and  bewildering  too,  to  any  man  to  be 
suddenly  and  emphatically  smitten  in  his  good 
right  eye  by  one  who  seemed  all  peace  and 
elderly  sedateness,  and  to  behold  an  audience, 
which  though  cold,  perhaps,  had  been  friendly 
enough,  arise  in  its  entirety  and  most  vocifer 
ously  cheer  the  smiting.  How  much  more  so, 
then,  in  the  case  of  a  Seer  of  the  Unseen,  who 
is  supposed  to  be  able  to  discern  such  things 
ahead  of  their  happening? 

Daniel  the  Mystic  looked  this  way  and  that, 
seeking  a  handy  way  of  escape,  but  both  ways 
were  barred  to  him.  At  one  side  of  the  stage 
was  Doctor  Lake,  aiming  a  walking  stick  at  him 
like  a  spear;  and  at  the  other  side  was  Mr. 
Felsburg,  with  an  umbrella  for  a  weapon. 

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Old  Mr.  Gid  Irons  was  frightfully  quick. 
His  hands  shot  out  with  hard,  fast  dabbing 
motions  like  a  cat  striking  at  a  rolling  ball, 
and  he  planted  his  fists  wheresoever  he  aimed. 

Daniel  the  Mystic's  long  arms  flew  and 
flailed  wildly  in  air  and  his  mane  of  hair  tossed. 
He  threw  his  crossed  hands  across  his  face  to 
save  it  and  Mr.  Irons  hit  him  in  the  stomach. 
He  lowered  his  hands  to  his  vitals  in  an  agonized 
clutch  and  Mr.  Irons  hit  him  in  the  jaw. 

I  know  now  in  the  light  of  a  riper  experience 
of  such  things  that  it  was  most  wonderfully 
fast  work,  and  all  of  it  happening  much  faster 
than  the  time  I  have  taken  here  to  tell  it,  Mr. 
Gid  Irons  wading  steadily  in  and  Daniel  the 
Mystic  flopping  about  and  threshing  and  yell 
ing  —  he  was  beginning  to  yell  —  and  the 
chairs  flipping  over  on  their  backs  and  every 
body  standing  up  and  whooping.  All  of  a 
sudden  Daniel  the  Mystic  went  down  flat  on 
his  back,  calling  for  help  on  some  one  whose 
name  I  will  take  oath  was  not  D.  C.  Davello. 
It  sounded  more  like  Thompson. 

Doctor  Lake  dropped  his  walking  stick  and 
ran  out  from  the  wings. 

"It  would  be  highly  improper  to  strike  a 
man  when  he's  down,"  he  counseled  Mr.  Irons 
as  he  grabbed  Daniel  the  Mystic  by  the  armpits 
and  heaved  him  up  flappingly.  "Allow  me 
to  help  the  gentleman  to  his  feet." 

Mr.  Irons  hit  him  just  once  more,  a  straight 
jabbing  center  blow,  and  knocked  him  clear 

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A     JUDGMENT     GOME     TO     DANIEL 

into  and  under  his  black  calico  cabinet,  so  far 
in  it  and  under  it  that  its  curtains  covered  all 
but  his  legs,  which  continued  to  flutter  and 
waggle  feebly. 

"Get  a  couple-a  chairs,  Gideon."  This 
advice  came  from  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  who 
jumped  up  and  down  and  directed  an  imaginary 
orchestra  of  bass  drummers  with  his  umbrella 
for  a  baton  — "Get  a  couple-a  chairs  and  stand 
on  the  son-of-a-gun's  stomach.  It  does  the 
subcheck  no  harm  and  the  subcheck  feels  no 
pain.  As  a  favor  to  me,  Gideon,  I  ask  you, 
stand  on  his  stomach." 

But  Mr.  Irons  was  through.  He  turned 
about  and  came  down  the  runway  and  passed 
out,  rearing  back  and  jarring  his  heels  down 
hard.  If  he  had  spoken  a  single  word  the  whole 
time  I  hadn't  heard  it.  As  I  remarked  several 
times  before  he  was  a  small  man  and  so  I  am 
not  trying  to  explain  the  optical  delusion  of  the 
moment.  I  am  only  trying  to  tell  how  Mr. 
Gid  Irons  looked  as  he  passed  me.  He  looked 
seven  feet  tall. 

It  must  have  been  just  about  this  time  that 
D.  C.  Davello  worked  his  way  out  from  under 
neath  the  hippopotamously  vast  bulk  of  Fatty 
McManus  and  started  running  back  up  the 
stairs.  But  before  he  reached  the  door  the  city 
marshal,  who  had  been  standing  downstairs  all 
the  time  and  strange  to  say,  hadn't,  it  would 
appear,  heard  any  of  the  clamor,  ran  up  behind 
him  and  arrested  him  for  loud  talking  and 

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disorderly  conduct.  The  city  marshal  obtusely 
didn't  look  inside  the  door  for  visual  evidences 
of  any  trouble  within;  he  would  listen  to  no 
reason.  He  grabbed  D.  C.  Davello  by  the 
coat  collar  and  pulled  him  back  to  the  sidewalk 
and  had  him  halfway  across  Market  Square 
to  the  lock-up  before  the  captive  could  make 
him  understand  what  had  really  happened. 
Even  then  the  official  displayed  a  dense  and 
gummy  stupidity,  for  he  kept  demanding 
further  details  and  made  the  other  tell  every 
thing  over  to  him  at  least  twice.  This  also 
took  time,  because  D.  C.  Davello  was  excited 
and  stammering  and  the  city  marshal  was 
constantly  interrupting  him.  So  that,  by  the 
time  he  finally  got  the  straight  of  things  into 
his  head  and  they  got  back  to  St.  Clair  Hall, 
the  lights  were  out  and  the  stairs  were  dark 
and  the  last  of  the  audience  was  tailing  away. 
The  city  marshal  stopped,  as  if  taken  with  a 
clever  idea,  and  looked  at  his  watch  and 
remarked  to  D.  C.  Davello  that  he  and  his 
friend  the  Professor  would  just  about  have 
time  to  catch  the  10 : 50  accommodation  for 
Louisville  if  they  hurried;  which  seemed 
strange  advice  to  be  giving,  seeing  that  D. 
C.  Davello  hadn't  asked  about  trains  at  all. 

Nevertheless  he  took  it  —  the  advice  — 
which  also  necessitated  taking  the  train. 

Even  in  so  short  a  time  the  news  seemed  to 
have  spread  with  most  mysterious  speed,  that 
Daniel  the  Mystic  had  canceled  his  second 

[1281 


A     JUDGMENT     COME     TO     DANIEL 

night's  engagement  and  would  be  leaving  us 
on  the  10:50.  Quite  a  crowd  went  to  the  depot 
to  see  him  off.  We  boys  tagged  along,  too, 
keeping  pace  with  Judge  Priest  and  Doctor 
Lake  and  Major  Joe  Sam  Covington  and  certain 
other  elderly  residents,  who,  as  they  tramped 
along,  maintained  a  sort  of  irregular  formation, 
walking  two  by  two  just  as  they  did  when  the 
Veterans'  Camp  turned  out  for  a  funeral  or  a 
reunion. 

There  must  have  been  something  wrong 
down  the  road  that  night  with  the  10:50. 
Usually  she  was  anywhere  from  one  to  three 
hours  late,  but  this  night  she  strangely  came 
in  on  time.  She  was  already  whistling  for  the 
crossing  above  Kattersmith's  brickyard  when 
we  arrived,  moving  in  force.  D.  C.  Davello 
saw  us  from  afar  and  remembered  some  busi 
ness  that  took  him  briskly  back  behind  the 
freight  shed.  But  Daniel  the  Mystic  sat  on  a 
baggage  truck  with  a  handkerchief  to  his  face, 
and  seemed  not  to  see  any  of  us  coming  until 
our  advance  guard  filed  up  and  flanked  him. 

"Well,  suh,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "you  had  a 
signal  honor  paid  you  in  this  community 
tonight." 

Daniel  the  Mystic  raised  his  head.  The 
light  from  a  tin  reflector  lamp  shone  on  his 
face  and  showed  its  abundant  damages.  You 
would  hardly  have  known  Daniel  the  Mystic 
for  the  same  person.  His  gorgeousness  and 
grandeur  of  person  had  fallen  from  him  like 

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a  discarded  garment,  and  his  nose  dripped 
redly. 

"I  —  had  —  what?"  he  answered,  speak 
ing  somewhat  thickly  because  of  his  swollen 
lip. 

"A  mighty  signal  honor,"  said  Judge  Priest, 
in  his  thin  whine.  "In  the  presence  of  a 
representative  gatherin'  of  our  best  people  you 
were  licked  by  the  most  efficient  and  the 
quickest-actin'  scout  that  ever  served  in  General 
John  Morgan's  entire  cavalry  command." 

But  the  reply  of  Daniel  the  Mystic,  if  he 
made  one,  was  never  heard  of  living  man, 
because  at  that  moment  the  10:50  accom 
modation  came  in  and  her  locomotive  began 
exhausting. 


[130] 


V 
UP   CLAY   STREET 


ONE  behind  the  other,  three  short  sec 
tions  of  a  special  came  sliding  into 
the  yard  sidings  below  the  depot. 
The  cars  clanked  their  drawheads  to 
gether  like  manacles,  as  they  were  chivied  and 
bullied  and  shoved  about  by  a  regular  chain- 
gang  boss  of  a  switch  engine.  Some  of  the  cars 
were  ordinary  box  cars,  just  the  plain  galley 
slaves  of  commerce,  but  painted  a  uniform  blue 
and  provided  with  barred  gratings;  some  were 
flat  cars  laden  with  huge  wheeled  burdens 
hooded  under  tarpaulins;  and  a  few  were 
sleeping  cars  that  had  been  a  bright  yellow  at 
the  beginning  of  the  season,  with  flaring  red 
lettering  down  the  sides,  but  now  were  faded 
to  a  shabby  saffron. 

It  was  just  getting  good  broad  day.  The 
sleazy  dun  clouds  that  had  been  racked  up 
along  the  east— like  mill-ends  left  over  from 
night's  remnant  counter,  as  a  poet  might  have 
said  had  there  been  a  poet  there  to  say  it  — 

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were  now  torn  asunder,  and  through  the  tear 
the  sun  showed  out,  blushing  red  at  his  own 
nakedness  and  pushing  ahead  of  him  long 
shadows  that  stretched  on  the  earth  the  wrong 
way.  There  was  a  taste  of  earliness  in  the  air, 
a  sort  of  compounded  taste  of  dew  and  dust 
and  maybe  a  little  malaria. 

Early  as  it  was,  there  was  a  whopping  big 
delegation  of  small  boys,  white  and  black, 
on  hand  for  a  volunteer  reception  committee. 
The  eyes  of  these  boys  were  bright  and  expect 
ant  in  contrast  to  the  eyes  of  the  yard  hands, 
who  looked  half  dead  for  sleep  and  yawned 
and  shivered.  The  boys  welcomed  the  show 
train  at  the  depot  and  ran  alongside  its  various 
sections.  They  were  mainly  barefooted,  but 
they  avoided  splinters  in  the  butts  of  the 
crossties  and  sharp  clinkers  in  the  cinder  ballast 
of  the  roadbed  with  the  instinctive  agility  of  a 
race  of  primitives. 

Almost  before  the  first  string  of  cars  halted 
and  while  the  clanking  of  the  iron  links  still  ran 
down  its  length  like  a  code  signal  being  repeated, 
a  lot  of  mop-headed  men  in  overalls  appeared, 
crawling  out  from  all  sorts  of  unsuspected  sleep 
ing  places  aboard.  Magically  a  six-team  of 
big  white  Norman  horses  materialized,  dragging 
empty  traces  behind  them.  They  must  have 
been  harnessed  up  together  beforehand  in  a 
stock  car  somewhere.  A  corrugated  wooden 
runway  appeared  to  sprout  downward  and 
outward  from  an  open  car  door,  and  down  it 

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bumped  a  high,  open  wagon  with  a  big  sheet- 
iron  cooking  range  mounted  on  it  and  one  short 
length  of  stovepipe  rising  above  like  a  stumpy 
fighting-top  on  an  armored  cruiser.  As  the 
wheels  thumped  against  the  solid  earth  a  man 
in  a  dirty  apron,  who  had  been  balancing  him 
self  in  the  wagon,  touched  a  match  to  some 
fuel  in  his  firebox.  Instantly  black  smoke 
came  out  of  the  top  of  the  stack  and  a  stinging 
smell  of  burning  wood  trailed  behind  him,  as 
the  six-horse  team  hooked  on  and  he  and  his 
moving  kitchen  went  lurching  and  rolling  across 
shallow  gulleys  and  over  a  rutted  common,  right 
into  the  red  eye  of  the  upcoming  sun. 

Other  wagons  followed,  loaded  with  blue 
stakes,  with  coils  of  ropes,  with  great  rolls  of 
earth-stained  canvas,  and  each  took  the  same 
route,  with  four  or  six  horses  to  drag  it  and  a 
born  charioteer  in  a  flannel  shirt  to  drive  it.  The 
common  destination  was  a  stretch  of  flat  land  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  the  track.  Truck 
patches  backed  up  against  this  site  on  one  side 
and  the  outlying  cottages  of  the  town  flanked 
it  on  the  other,  and  it  was  bordered  with  frayed 
fringes  of  ragweed  and  niggerheads,  and  was 
dotted  over  with  the  dried-mud  chimneys  of 
crawfish.  In  the  thin  turf  here  a  geometric 
pattern  of  iron  laying-out  pins  now  appeared 
to  spring  up  simultaneously,  with  rag  pennons 
of  red  and  blue  fluttering  in  the  tops,  and  at 
once  a  crew  of  men  set  to  work  with  an  orderly 
confusion,  only  stopping  now  and  then  to 

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bellow  back  the  growing  swarms  of  boys  who 
hung  eagerly  on  the  flank  of  each  new  operation. 
True  to  the  promise  of  its  lithographed  glories 
the  circus  was  in  our  midst,  rain  or  shine,  for 
this  day  and  date  only. 

If  there  is  any  of  the  boy  spirit  left  in  us 
circus  day  may  be  esteemed  to  bring  it  out. 
And  considering  his  age  and  bulk  and  his 
calling,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the  boy  left 
in  our  circuit  judge  —  so  much  boy,  in  fact, 
that  he,  an  early  riser  of  note  in  a  town  much 
given  to  early  rising,  was  up  and  dressing  this 
morning  a  good  hour  ahead  of  his  usual  time. 
As  he  dressed  he  kept  going  to  the  side  window 
of  his  bedroom  and  looking  out.  Eventually 
he  had  his  reward.  Through  a  break  in  the 
silver-leaf  poplars  he  saw  a  great  circus  wagon 
crossing  his  line  of  vision  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
away.  Its  top  and  sides  were  masked  in  canvas, 
but  he  caught  a  flicker  of  red  and  gold  as  the 
sun  glinted  on  its  wheels,  and  he  saw  the  four 
horses  tugging  it  along,  and  the  dipping  figure 
of  the  driver  up  above.  The  sight  gave  the 
old  judge  a  little  thrill  down  inside  of  him. 

"I  reckin  that  fellow  was  right  when  he  said 
a  man  is  only  as  old  as  he  feels,"  said  Judge 
Priest  to  himself.  "And  I'm  glad  court  ain't 
in  session  —  I  honestly  am."  He  opened  his 
door  and  called  down  into  the  body  of  the  silent 
house  below:  "Jeff!  Oh,  Jeff!" 

"Yas,  suh,"  came  up  the  prompt  answer. 

"Jeff,  you  go  out  yonder  to  the  kitchen  and 

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tell  Aunt  Dilsey  to  hurry  along  my  breakfast. 
I'll  be  down  right  away." 

"Yas,  suh,"  said  Jeff;  "I'll  bring  it  right  in, 
suh." 

Jeff  was  as  anxious  as  the  judge  that  the 
ceremony  of  breakfast  might  be  speedily  over; 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  so  was  Aunt  Dilsey,  who 
fluttered  with  impatience  as  she  fried  the  judge's 
matinal  ham  and  dished  up  the  hominy.  Aunt 
Dilsey  regularly  patronized  all  circuses,  but 
she  specialized  in  sideshows.  The  sideshow 
got  a  dime  of  hers  before  the  big  show  started 
and  again  after  it  ended.  She  could  remember 
from  year  to  year  just  how  the  sideshow  banners 
looked  and  how  many  there  were  of  them,  and 
on  the  mantelpiece  in  her  cabin  was  ranged  a 
fly-blown  row  of  freaks'  photographs  purchased 
at  the  exceedingly  reasonable  rate  of  ten  cents 
for  cabinet  sizes  and  twenty -five  for  the  full 
length. 

So  there  was  no  delay  about  serving  the 
judge's  breakfast  or  about  clearing  the  table 
afterward.  For  that  one  morning,  anyhow, 
the  breakfast  dishes  went  unwashed.  Even 
as  the  judge  put  on  his  straw  hat  and  came  out 
on  the  front  porch,  the  back  door  was  already 
discharging  Jeff  and  Aunt  Dilsey.  By  the 
time  the  judge  had  traversed  the  shady  yard 
and  unlatched  the  front  gate,  Jeff  was  halfway 
to  the  showground  and  mending  his  gait  all 
the  time.  Less  than  five  minutes  later  Jeff 
was  being  ordered,  somewhat  rudely,  off  the 

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side  of  a  boarded-up  cage,  upon  which  he  had 
climbed  with  a  view  to  ascertaining,  by  a  peep 
through  the  barred  air-vent  under  the  driver's 
seat,  whether  the  mysterious  creature  inside 
looked  as  strange  as  it  smelled;  and  less  than 
five  minutes  after  that,  Jeff,  having  reached  a 
working  understanding  with  the  custodian  of 
the  cage,  who  likewise  happened  to  be  in  charge 
of  certain  ring  stock,  was  convoying  a  string 
of  trick  ponies  to  the  water-trough  over  by  the 
planing  mill.  Aunt  Dilsey,  moving  more  slowly 
—  yet  guided,  nevertheless,  by  a  sure  instinct  — 
presently  anchored  herself  at  the  precise  spot 
where  the  sideshow  tent  would  stand.  Here 
several  lodge  sisters  soon  joined  her.  They 
formed  a  comfortable  brown  clump,  stationary 
in  the  midst  of  many  brisk  activities. 

The  judge  stood  at  his  gate  a  minute,  light 
ing  his  corncob  pipe.  As  he  stood  there  a 
farm  wagon  clattered  by,  coming  in  from  the 
country.  Its  bed  was  full  of  kitchen  chairs 
and  the  kitchen  chairs  contained  a  family, 
including  two  pretty  country  girls  in  their 
teens,  who  were  dressed  in  fluttering  white  with 
a  plenitude  of  red  and  blue  ribbons.  The 
head  of  the  family,  driving,  returned  the  judge's 
waved  greeting  somewhat  stiffly.  It  was  plain 
that  his  person  was  chafed  and  his  whole  being 
put  under  restraint  by  the  fell  influences  of  a 
Sunday  coat  and  the  hard  collar  that  was 
buttoned  on  to  the  neckband  of  his  blue  shirt. 

His  pipe  being  lighted,  the  judge  headed 

[1361 


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leisurely  in  the  same  direction  that  the  laden 
farm  wagon  had  taken.  Along  Clay  Street 
from  the  judge's  house  to  the  main  part  of 
town,  where  the  business  houses  and  the  stores 
centered,  was  a  mile  walk  nearly,  up  a  fairly 
steepish  hill  and  down  again,  but  shaded  well 
all  the  way  by  water  maples  and  silver-leaf 
trees.  There  weren't  more  than  eight  houses 
or  ten  along  Clay  Street,  and  these,  with  the 
exception  of  the  judge's  roomy,  white-porched 
house  standing  aloof  in  its  two  acres  of  poorly 
kept  lawn,  were  all  little  two-room  frame  houses, 
each  in  a  small,  bare  inclosure  of  its  own,  with 
wide,  weed-grown  spaces  between  it  and  its 
next-door  neighbors.  These  were  the  homes 
of  those  who  in  a  city  would  have  been  tene 
ment  dwellers.  In  front  of  them  stretched 
Harrow  wooden  sidewalks,  dappled  now  with 
patches  of  shadow  and  of  soft,  warm  sunshine. 
Perhaps  halfway  along  was  a  particularly 
shabby  little  brown  house  that  pushed  close 
up  to  the  street  line.  A  straggly  catalpa  tree 
shaded  its  narrow  porch.  This  was  the  home 
of  Lemuel  Hammersmith;  and  Hammersmith 
seems  such  a  name  as  should  by  right  belong 
to  a  masterful,  upstanding  man  with  something 
of  Thor  or  Vulcan  or  Judas  Maccabaeus  in  him — 
it  appears  to  have  that  sound.  But  Lemuel 
Hammersmith  was  no  such  man.  In  a  city  he 
would  have  been  lost  altogether  —  swallowed 
up  among  a  mass  of  more  important,  pushing 
folk.  But  in  a  town  as  small  as  ours  he  had  a 

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distinction.  He  belonged  to  more  secret  orders 
than  any  man  in  town  —  he  belonged  to  all 
there  were.  Their  small  mummeries  and  mys 
teries,  conducted  behind  closed  doors,  had  for 
him  a  lure  that  there  was  no  resisting;  he  just 
had  to  join.  As  I  now  recall,  he  never  rose 
to  high  rank  in  any  one  of  them,  never  wore  the 
impressive  regalia  and  the  weighty  title  of  a 
supreme  officer;  but  when  a  lodge  brother 
died  he  nearly  always  served  on  the  committee 
that  drew  up  the  resolutions  of  respect.  In 
moments  of  half -timid  expanding  he  had  been 
known  to  boast  mildly  that  his  signature, 
appended  to  resolutions  of  respect,  suitably 
engrossed  and  properly  framed,  hung  on  the 
parlor  walls  of  more  than  a  hundred  homes. 
He  was  a  small  and  inconsequential  man  and  he 
led  a  small  and  inconsequential  life,  giving  his 
days  to  clerking  in  Noble  &  Barry's  coal  office 
for  fifty  dollars  a  month,  and  his  nights  to  his 
lodge  meetings  and  to  drawing  up  resolutions  of 
respect.  In  the  latter  direction  he  certainly 
had  a  gift;  the  underlying  sympathy  of  his 
nature  found  its  outlet  there.  And  he  had  a 
pale,  sickly  wife  and  a  paler,  sicklier  child. 

On  this  circus  day  he  had  been  stationed  in 
front  of  his  house  for  a  good  half  hour,  watching 
up  the  street  for  some  one.  This  some  one, 
as  it  turned  out,  was  Judge  Priest.  At  sight 
of  the  old  judge  coming  along,  Mr.  Hammer 
smith  went  forward  to  meet  him  and  fell  in 
alongside,  keeping  pace  with  him. 

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"Good  mornin',  son,"  said  the  old  judge, 
who  knew  everybody  that  lived  in  town.  "How's 
the  little  feller  this  mornin'?" 

"Judge,  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  Lemuel  Junior 
ain't  no  better  this  mornin',"  answered  the 
little  coal  clerk  with  a  hitching  of  his  voice. 
"We're  afraid  —  his  mother  and  me  —  that 
he  ain't  never  goin'  to  be  no  better.  I've  had 
Doctor  Lake  in  again  and  he  says  there  really 
ain't  anything  we  can  do  —  he  says  it's  just  a 
matter  of  a  little  time  now.  Old  Aunt  Hannah 
Holmes  says  he's  got  bone  erysipelas,  and  that 
if  we  could  'a'  got  him  away  from  here  in  time 
we  might  have  saved  him.  But  I  don't  know 
—  we  done  the  best  we  could.  I  try  to  be 
reconciled.  Lemuel  Junior  he  suffers  so  at 
times  that  it'll  be  a  mercy,  I  reckin  —  but 
it's  hard  on  you,  judge  —  it's  tumble  hard  on 
you  when  it's  your  only  child." 

"My  son,"  said  the  old  judge,  speaking 
slowly,  "it's  so  hard  that  I  know  nothin'  I 
could  say  or  do  would  be  any  comfort  to  you. 
But  I'm  sorry  —  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  you  all. 
I  know  what  it  is.  I  buried  mine,  both  of  'em, 
in  one  week's  time,  and  that's  thirty  years  and 
more  ago;  but  it  still  hurts  mightily  sometimes. 
I  wish't  there  was  something  I  could  do." 

"Well,  there  is,"  said  Hammersmith  — 
"there  is,  judge,  maybe.  That's  why  I've 
been  standin'  down  here  waitin'  for  you.  You 
see,  Lemmy  he  was  tumble  sharp  set  on  goin' 
to  the  circus  today.  He's  been  readin'  the 

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circus  bills  that  I'd  bring  home  to  him  until  he 
knew  'em  off  by  heart.  He  always  did  have 
a  mighty  bright  mind  for  rememberin'  things. 
We  was  aimin'  to  take  him  to  the  show  this 
evenin',  bundled  up  in  a  bedquilt,  you  know, 
and  settin'  off  with  him  in  a  kind  of  a  quiet 
place  somewhere.  But  he  had  a  bad  night  and 
we  just  can't  make  out  to  do  it — he's  too  weak 
to  stand  it  —  and  it  was  most  breakin'  his 
heart  for  a  while;  but  then  he  said  if  he  could 
just  see  the  parade  he'd  be  satisfied. 

"And,  judge,  that's  the  point  —  he's  took 
it  into  his  head  that  you  can  fix  it  some  way 
so  he  can  see  it.  We  tried  to  argue  him  out  of 
it,  but  you  know  how  it  is,  tryin'  to  argue  with 
a  child  as  sick  as  Lemuel  Junior's  been.  He  — 
he  won't  listen  to  nothin'  we  say." 

A  great  compassion  shadowed  the  judge's 
face.  His  hand  went  out  and  found  the  sloping 
shoulder  of  the  father  and  patted  it  clumsily. 
He  didn't  say  anything.  There  didn't  seem 
to  be  anything  to  say. 

"So  we  just  had  to  humor  him  along.  His 
maw  has  had  him  at  the  front  window  for  an 
hour  now,  propped  up  on  a  pillow,  waitin'  for 
you  to  come  by.  He  wouldn't  listen  to  nothin' 
else.  And,  judge  —  if  you  can  humor  him  at 
all  —  any  way  at  all  —  do  it,  please  — " 

He  broke  off  because  they  were  almost  in 
the  shadow  of  the  catalpa  tree,  and  now 
the  judge's  name  was  called  out  by  a  voice 
that  was  as  thin  and  elfin  as  though  the 

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throat  that  spoke  it  were  strung  with  fine 
silver  wires. 

"Oh,  judge  —  oh,  Mister  Judge  Priest!" 

The  judge  stopped,  and,  putting  his  hands 
on  the  palings,  looked  across  them  at  the  little 
sick  boy.  He  saw  a  face  that  seemed  to  be  all 
eyes  and  mouth  and  bulging,  blue-veined  fore 
head  —  he  was  shockingly  reminded  of  a  new- 
hatched  sparrow  —  and  the  big  eyes  were 
feverishly  alight  with  the  look  that  is  seen  only 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  already  have  begun 
to  glimpse  the  great  secret  that  lies  beyond  the 
ken  of  the  rest  of  us. 

"Why,  hello,  little  feller,"  said  the  judge, 
with  a  false  heartiness.  "I'm  sorry  to  see  you 
laid  up  again." 

"Judge  Priest,  sir,"  said  the  sick  boy, 
panting  with  weak  eagerness,  "I  want  to  see 
the  grand  free  street  parade.  I've  been  sick 
a  right  smart  while,  and  I  can't  go  to  the  circus; 
but  I  do  want  mightily  to  see  the  grand  free 
street  parade.  And  I  want  you,  please,  sir, 
to  have  'em  come  up  by  this  house." 

There  was  a  world  of  confidence  in  the  plea. 
Unnoticed  by  the  boy,  his  mother,  who  had 
been  fanning  him,  dropped  the  fan  and  put 
her  apron  over  her  face  and  leaned  against  the 
window-jamb,  sobbing  silently.  The  father, 
silent  too,  leaned  against  the  fence,  looking 
fixedly  at  nothing  and  wiping  his  eyes  with  the 
butt  of  his  hand.  Yes,  it  is  possible  for  a  man 
to  wipe  his  eyes  on  his  bare  hand  without 

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seeming  either  grotesque  or  vulgar  —  even 
when  the  man  who  does  it  is  a  little  inconse 
quential  man  —  if  his  child  is  dying  and  his 
sight  is  blurred  and  his  heart  is  fit  to  burst 
inside  of  him.  The  judge  bent  across  the 
fence,  and  his  face  muscles  were  working  but 
his  voice  held  steady. 

"Well,  now,  Lemmy,"  he  said,  "I'd  like  to 
do  it  for  you  the  best  in  the  world;  but,  you 
see,  boy,  I  don't  own  this  here  circus  —  I  don't 
even  know  the  gentleman  that  does  own  it." 

"His  name  is  Silver,"  supplied  the  _sick 
child  —  "Daniel  P.  Silver,  owner  of  Silver's 
Mammoth  United  Railroad  Shows,  Roman 
Hippodrome  and  Noah's  Ark  Menagerie  — 
that's  the  man!  I  kin  show  you  his  picture 
on  one  of  the  showbills  my  paw  brought  home 
to  me,  and  then  you  kin  go  right  and  find  him." 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  do  much  good  if  I 
did  know  him,  Lemmy,"  said  the  old  judge 
very  gently.  "You  see  — 

"But  ain't  you  the  judge  at  the  big  cote- 
house?"  demanded  the  child;  "and  can't  you 
put  people  in  jail  if  they  don't  do  what 
you  tell  'em?  That's  what  my  grandpop 
says.  He's  always  tellin'  me  stories  about 
how  you  and  him  fought  the  Yankees,  and  he 
always  votes  for  you  too  —  my  grandpop  talks 
like  he  thought  you  could  do  anything.  And, 
judge,  please,  sir,  if  you  went  to  Mister  Daniel 
P.  Silver  and  told  him  that  you  was  the  big 
judge  —  and  told  him  there  was  a  little  sick 

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boy  livin'  right  up  the  road  a  piece  in  a  little 
brown  house  —  don't  you  reckin  he'd  do  it? 
It  ain't  so  very  far  out  of  the  way  if  they  go 
down  Jefferson  Street  —  it's  only  a  little  ways 
Judge,  you'll  make  'em  do  it,  won't  you  —  for 
me?" 

"I'll  try,  boy,  I'll  shorely  try  to  do  what  I 
can,"  said  the  old  judge;  "but  if  I  can't  make 
'em  do  it  you  won't  be  disappointed,  will  you, 
Lemmy  ?  "  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket.  "  Here's 
four  bits  for  you  —  you  tell  your  daddy  to 
buy  you  something  with  it.  I  know  your  maw 
and  daddy  wouldn't  want  you  to  take  money 
from  strangers,  but  of  course  it's  different  with 
old  friends  like  you  and  me.  Here,  you  take 
it.  And  there's  something  else,"  he  went  on. 
"I'll  bet  you  there's  one  of  those  dagoes  or 
somebody  like  that  downtown  with  a  lot  of 
these  here  big  toy  rubber  balloons  —  red  and 
green  and  blue.  You  tell  me  which  color  you 
like  the  best  and  I'll  see  that  it's  sent  right  up 
here  to  you  —  the  biggest  balloon  the  man's 
got- 

"I  don't  want  any  balloon,"  said  the  little 
voice  fretfully,  "and  I  don't  want  any  four 
bits.  I  want  to  see  the  grand  free  street  parade, 
and  the  herd  of  elephants,  and  the  clown,  and 
the  man-eatin'  tigers,  and  everything.  I  want 
that  parade  to  come  by  this  house." 

The  judge  looked  hopelessly  from  the  child 
to  the  mother  and  then  to  the  father  —  they 
both  had  their  faces  averted  still  —  and  back 

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into  the  sick  child's  face  again.  The  four-bit 
piece  lay  shining  on  the  porch  floor  where  it  had 
fallen.  The  judge  backed  away,  searching  his 
mind  for  the  right  words  to  say. 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,  Lemmy,"  he 
repeated,  as  though  he  could  find  no  other 
phrase  -  "I'll  do  what  I  can." 

The  child  rolled  his  head  back  against  the 
pillow,  satisfied.  "Then  it'll  be  all  right,  sir," 
he  said  with  a  joyful  confidence.  "My  grand- 
pop  he  said  you  could  do  'most  anything. 
You  tell  'em,  Mister  Judge  Priest,  that  I'll 
be  a-waitin'  right  here  in  this  very  window  for 
'em  when  they  pass." 

Walking  with  his  head  down  and  his  steps 
lagging,  the  old  judge,  turning  into  the  main 
thoroughfare,  was  almost  run  over  by  a  mare 
that  came  briskly  along,  drawing  a  light  buggy 
with  a  tall  man  in  it.  The  tall  man  pulled  up 
the  mare  just  in  time.  His  name  was  Settle. 

"By  gum,  judge,"  he  said  apologetically, 
"I  came  mighty  near  gettin'  you  that  time!" 

"  Hello,  son,"  said  the  judge  absently ;  "  which 
way  are  you  headed?" 

"Downtown,  same  as  everybody  else,"  said 
Settle.  "Jump  in  and  I'll  take  you  right  down, 
sir." 

"Much  obliged,"  assented  the  old  judge,  as 
he  heaved  himself  heavily  up  between  the 
skewed  wheels  and  settled  himself  so  solidly 
at  Settle's  left  that  the  seat  springs  whined; 
"but  I  wish't,  if  you're  not  in  too  big  a,  hurry, 

[144] 


UP     CLAY     STREET 

that  you'd  drive  me  up  by  them  showgrounds 
first." 

"Glad  to,"  said  Settle,  as  he  swung  the  mare 
round.  "I  just  come  from  there  myself  — 
been  up  lookin'  at  the  stock.  'Tain't  much. 
Goin'  up  to  look  their  stock  over  yourself, 
judge?"  he  asked,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
any  man  would  naturally  be  interested  in  horse 
flesh,  as  indeed  would  be  a  true  guess  so  far 
as  any  man  in  that  community  was  concerned. 

"Stock?"  said  the  judge.  "No,  I  want  to 
see  the  proprietor  of  this  here  show.  I  won't 
keep  you  waitin'  but  a  minute  or  two." 

"The  proprietor!"  echoed  Settle,  surprised. 
"What's  a  circuit  judge  goin'  to  see  a  circus 
man  for  —  is  it  something  about  their  license?" 

"No,"  said  the  judge  —  "no,  just  some 
business  —  a  little  private  business  matter  I 
want  to  see  him  on." 

He  offered  no  further  explanation  and  Settle 
asked  for  none.  At  the  grounds  the  smaller 
tents  were  all  up  —  there  was  quite  a  little 
dirty- white  encampment  of  them  —  and  just 
as  they  drove  up  the  roof  of  the  main  tent  rose 
to  the  tops  of  its  center  poles,  bellying  and 
billowing  like  a  stage  sea  in  the  second  act  of 
Monte  Cristo.  Along  the  near  edge  of  the 
common,  negro  men  were  rigging  booths  with 
planks  for  counters  and  sheets  for  awnings, 
and  negro  women  were  unpacking  the  wares 
that  would  presently  be  spread  forth  temptingly 
against  the  coming  of  the  show  crowds  —  fried 

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chicken  and  slabs  of  fried  fish,  and  ham  and 
pies  and  fried  apple  turnovers.  Leaving  Settle 
checking  the  restive  mare,  the  old  judge  made 
his  way  across  the  sod,  already  scuffed  and 
dented  by  countless  feet.  A  collarless,  red- 
faced  man,  plainly  a  functionary  of  some  sort, 
hurried  toward  him,  and  the  judge  put  himself 
in  this  man's  path. 

"Are  you  connected  with  this  institution, 
suh?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man  shortly,  but  slowing 
his  gait. 

"So  I  judged  from  your  manner  and  deport 
ment,  suh,"  said  the  judge.  "I'm  lookin'," 
he  went  on,  "for  your  proprietor." 

"Silver?  He's  over  yonder  by  the  cook 
house." 

"The  which?"  asked  the  judge. 

"The  cookhouse  —  the  dining  tent,"  ex 
plained  the  other,  pointing.  "Right  round 
yonder  beyond  that  second  stake  wagon  — 
where  you  see  smoke  rising.  But  he's  likely 
to  be  pretty  busy." 

Behind  the  second  stake  wagon  the  judge 
found  a  blocky,  authoritative  man,  with  a 
brown  derby  hat  tilted  back  on  his  head  and 
heavy-lidded  eyes  like  a  frog's,  and  knew  him 
at  once  for  the  owner;  but  one  look  at  the 
face  made  the  judge  hesitate.  He  felt  that 
his  was  a  lost  cause  already;  and  then  the 
other  opened  his  mouth  and  spoke,  and  Judge 
Priest  turned  on  his  heel  and  came  away.  The 

[1461 


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judge  was  reasonably  well  seasoned  to  sounds  of 
ordinary  profanity,  but  not  to  blasphemy  that 
seemed  to  loose  an  evil  black  smudge  upon  the 
clean  air.  He  came  back  to  the  buggy  and 
climbed  in. 

"See  your  man?"  asked  Settle. 
"Yes,"  said  the  judge  slowly,  "I  saw  him." 
Especially  downtown  things  had  a  holidaying 
look  to  them.  Wall-eyed  teams  of  country 
horses  were  tethered  to  hitching-racks  in  the 
short  by-streets,  flinching  their  flanks  and 
setting  themselves  for  abortive  stampedes  later 
on.  Pedlers  of  toy  balloons  circulated;  a 
vender  with  a  fascinating  line  of  patter  sold 
to  the  same  customers,  in  rapid  succession, 
odorous  hamburger  and  flat  slabs  of  a  heat- 
resisting  variety  of  striped  ice  cream.  At  a 
main  crossing,  catercornered  across  from  each 
other,  the  highpitch  man  and  his  brother  of 
the  flat  joint  were  at  work,  one  selling  electric 
belts  from  the  back  of  a  buggy,  the  other  down 
in  the  dust  manipulating  a  spindle  game.  The 
same  group  of  shillabers  were  constantly  circu 
lating  from  one  faker  to  the  other,  and  as 
constantly  investing.  Even  the  clerks  couldn't 
stay  inside  the  stores  —  they  kept  darting  out 
and  darting  back  in  again.  A  group  of  darkies 
would  find  a  desirable  point  of  observation 
along  the  sidewalk  and  hold  it  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  then  on  a  sudden  unaccountable 
impulse  would  desert  it  and  go  streaking  off 
down  the  middle  of  the  street  to  find  another 

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that  was  in  no  way  better.  In  front  of  the 
wagon  yard  country  rigs  were  parked  three 
deep.  Every  small  boy  who  wasn't  at  the 
showground  was  swarming  round  underfoot 
somewhere,  filled  with  a  most  delicious  nervous 
ness  that  kept  him  moving.  But  Judge  Priest, 
who  would  have  joyed  in  these  things  ordinarily, 
had  an  absent  eye  for  it  all.  There  was  another 
picture  persisting  in  his  mind,  a  picture  with  a 
little  brown  house  and  a  ragged  catalpa  tree 
for  a  background. 

In  front  of  Soule's  drug  store  his  weekday 
cronies  sat  —  the  elder  statesmen  of  the  town  — 
tilted  back  in  hard-bottomed  chairs,  with  their 
legs  drawn  up  under  them  out  of  the  tides  of 
foot  travel.  But  he  passed  them  by,  only 
nodding  an  answer  to  their  choraled  greeting, 
and  went  inside  back  behind  the  prescription 
case  and  sat  down  there  alone,  smoking  his 
pipe  soberly. 

"Wonder  what  ails  Judge  Priest?"  said 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby.  "He  looks  sort  of 
dauncy  and  low  in  his  mind,  don't  he?" 

"He  certainly  does,"  some  one  agreed. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  sheriff  came  in 
looking  for  him,  Judge  Priest  was  still  sitting 
alone  behind  the  prescription  case.  With  the 
sheriff  was  a  middle-aged  man,  a  stranger,  in 
a  wrinkled  check  suit  and  a  somewhat  soiled 
fancy  vest.  An  upper  pocket  of  this  vest  was 
bulged  outward  by  such  frank  articles  of  per 
sonal  use  as  a  red  celluloid  toothbrush,  carried 

f  148  1 


"I'LL    FIX    HIM— RED-LIGHTING    ME 
OFF    MY    OWN    PRIVILEGE    CAR." 


UP     CLAY     STREET 


bristle-end  up,  a  rubber  mustache-comb  and  a 
carpenter's  flat  pencil.  The  stranger  had  a 
longish  mustache,  iron-gray  at  the  roots  and 
of  a  greenish,  blue-black  color  elsewhere,  and 
he  walked  with  a  perceptible  limp.  He  had 
a  way,  it  at  once  developed,  of  taking  his  comb 
out  and  running  it  through  his  mustache  while 
in  conversation,  doing  so  without  seeming  to 
affect  the  flow  or  the  volume  of  his  language. 

"Mornin',  Judge  Priest,"  said  the  sheriff. 
"This  here  gentleman  wants  to  see  you  a 
minute  about  gittin'  out  an  attachment.  I 
taken  him  first  to  the  county  judge's  office,  but 
it  seems  like  Judge  Landis  went  up  to  Louisville 
last  night,  and  the  magistrates'  offices  air 
closed  —  both  of  them,  in  fact;  and  so  seein' 
as  this  gentleman  is  in  a  kind  of  a  hurry,  I 
taken  the  liberty  of  bringin'  him  round  to  you." 

Before  the  judge  could  open  his  mouth,  he 
of  the  dyed  mustache  was  breaking  in. 

"Yes,  sirree,"  he  began  briskly.  "If  you're 
the  judge  here  I  want  an  attachment.  I've 
got  a  good  claim  against  Dan  Silver,  and  blame 
me  if  I  don't  push  it.  I'll  fix  him  —  red- 
lighting  me  off  my  own  privilege  car!"  He 
puffed  up  with  rage  and  injury. 

"What  appears  to  be  the  main  trouble?" 
asked  the  judge,  studying  this  belligerent  one 
from  under  his  hatbrim. 

"Well,  it's  simple  enough,"  explained  the 
man.  "Stanton  is  my  name  —  here's  my 
card  —  and  I'm  the  fixer  for  this  show  —  the 

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legal  adjuster,  see?  Or,  anyhow,  I  was  until 
last  night.  And  I  likewise  am  —  or  was  — 
half  partner  with  Dan  Silver  in  the  privilege 
car  and  in  the  speculative  interests  of  this  show 
—  the  flat  joints  and  the  rackets  and  all.  You 
make  me  now,  I  guess?  Well,  last  night, 
coming  up  here  from  the  last  stand,  me  and 
Silver  fell  out  over  the  split-up,  over  dividing 
the  day's  profits  —  you  understand,  the  money 
is  cut  up  two  ways  every  night  —  and  I  ketched 
him  trying  to  trim  me.  I  called  him  down 
good  and  hard  then,  and  blame  if  he  didn't 
have  the  nerve  to  call  in  that  big  boss  razor- 
back  of  his,  named  Saginaw,  and  a  couple  more 
rousters,  and  red-light  me  right  off  my  own 
privilege  car!  Now  what  do  you  know  about 
that?" 

"Only  what  you  tell  me,"  replied  Judge 
Priest  calmly.  "Might  I  ask  you  what  is  the 
process  of  red-lightin'  a  person  of  your  callin* 
in  life?" 

"Chucking  you  off  of  a  train  without  waiting 
for  the  train  to  stop,  that's  what,"  expounded 
the  aggrieved  Mr.  Stanton.  "It  was  pretty 
soft  for  me  that  I  lit  on  the  side  of  a  dirt  bank 
and  we  wasn't  moving  very  fast,  else  I'd  a  been 
killed.  As  'twas  I  about  ruined  a  suit  of  clothes 
and  scraped  most  of  the  meat  off  of  one  leg." 
He  indicated  the  denuded  limb  by  raising  it 
stiffly  a  couple  of  times  and  then  felt  for  his 
comb.  Use  of  it  appeared  to  have  a  somewhat 
soothing  effect  upon  his  feelings,  and  he  con- 

[150] 


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tinued:  "So  I  limped  up  to  the  next  station, 
two  of  the  longest  miles  in  the  world,  and 
caught  a  freight  coming  through,  and  here 
I  am.  And  now  I  want  to  file  against  him  — 
the  dirty,  red-lighting  dog! 

"Why,  he  owes  me  money  —  plenty  of  it. 
Just  like  I  told  you,  I'm  the  half  owner  of  that 
privilege  car,  and  besides  he  borrowed  money 
off  of  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  season  and 
never  offered  to  pay  it  back.  I've  got  his 
personal  notes  right  here  to  prove  it."  He 
felt  for  the  documents  and  spread  them,  soiled 
and  thumbed,  upon  the  prescription  shelf  under 
the  judge's  nose.  "He's  sure  got  to  settle 
with  me  before  he  gets  out  of  this  town.  Don't 
worry  about  me  —  I'll  put  up  cash  bond  to 
prove  I'm  on  the  level,"  fishing  out  from  his 
trousers  pocket  a  bundle  of  bills  with  a  rubber 
band  on  it.  "Pretty  lucky  for  me  they  didn't 
know  I  had  my  bankroll  with  me  last  night!" 

"I  suppose  the  attachment  may  issue," 
said  the  judge  preparing  to  get  up. 

"Fine,"  said  Stanton,  with  deep  gratifica 
tion  in  his  bearing.  "But  here,  wait  a  minute," 
he  warned.  "Don't  make  no  mistake  and  try 
to  attach  the  whole  works,  because  if  you  do 
you'll  sure  fall  down  on  your  face,  judge. 
That's  all  been  provided  for.  The  wagons 
and  horses  are  all  in  Silver's  name  and  the 
cage  animals  are  all  in  his  wife's  name.  And  so 
when  a  hick  constable  or  somebody  comes 
round  with  an  attachment,  Dan  says  to  him, 

[1511 


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'All  right,'  he  says,  'go  on  and  attach,  but 
you  can't  touch  them  animals,'  he  says;  and 
then  friend  wife  flashes  a  bill  of  sale  to  show 
they  are  hers.  The  rube  says  'What'll  I  do?' 
and  Silver  says,  'Why,  let  the  animals  out  and 
take  the  wagons;  but  of  course,'  he  says, 
*  you 're  responsible  for  the  lions  and  that  pair 
of  ferocious  man-eating  tigers  and  the  rest  of 
'em.  Go  right  ahead,'  he  says,  'and  help 
yourself,'  'Yes,'  his  wife  says,  'go  ahead;  but 
if  you  let  any  of  my  wild  animals  get  away  I'll 
hold  you  liable,  and  also  if  you  let  any  of  'em 
chew  up  anybody  you'll  pay  the  damages  and 
not  me,'  she  says.  'You'll  have  to  be  specially 
careful  about  Wallace  the  Ontamable,'  she 
says;  'he's  et  up  two  trainers  already  this 
season  and  crippled  two-three  more  of  the 
hands.' 

"Well,  if  that  don't  bluff  the  rube  they  take 
him  round  and  give  him  a  flash  at  Wallace. 
Wallace  is  old  and  feeble  and  he  ain't  really 
much  more  dangerous  than  a  kitten,  but  he 
looks  rough;  and  Dan  sidles  up  'longside  the 
wagon  and  touches  a  button  that's  there  to  use 
during  the  ballyhoo,  and  then  Wallace  jumps 
up  and  down  and  roars  a  mile.  D'ye  make  me 
there?  Well,  the  floor  of  the  cage  is  all  iron 
strips,  and  when  Dan  touches  that  button  it 
shoots  about  fifty  volts  of  the  real  juice  — 
electricity,  you  know  —  into  Wallace's  feet 
and  he  acts  ontamable.  So  of  course  that 
stumps  the  rube,  and  Dan  like  as  not  gets 


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away  with  it  without  ever  settling.  Oh,  it's 
a  foxy  trick!  And  to  think  it  was  me  myself 
that  first  put  Silver  on  to  it !"  he  added  lament- 
ingly,  with  a  sidelong  look  at  the  sheriff  to 
see  how  that  official  was  taking  the  disclosure 
of  these  professional  secrets.  As  well  as  one 
might  judge  by  a  glance  the  sheriff  was  taking 
it  unmoved.  He  was  cutting  off  a  chew  of 
tobacco  from  a  black  plug.  Stowing  the  morsel 
in  his  jaw,  he  advanced  an  idea  of  his  own: 

"How  about  attachin'  the  receipts  in  the 
ticket  wagon?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that  either,"  said  the 
sophisticated  Stanton.  "Dan  Silver  is  one 
of  the  wisest  guys  in  this  business.  He  had  to 
be  a  wise  guy  to  slip  one  over  on  an  old  big- 
leaguer  like  yours  truly,  and  that's  no  sidewalk 
banter  either.  You  might  attach  the  wagon 
and  put  a  constable  or  somebody  inside  of  it, 
and  then  like  as  not  Dan  'd  find  some  way  to 
flimflam  him  and  make  his  getaway  with  the 
kale  intact.  You  gotter  give  it  to  Dan  Silver 
there.  I  guess  he's  a  stupid  guy  —  yes,  stupid 
like  a  bear  cat!"  His  tone  of  reluctant  ad 
miration  indicated  that  this  last  was  spoken 
satirically  and  that  seriously  he  regarded  a 
bear  cat  as  probably  the  astutest  hybrid  of  all 
species. 

"Are  all  circuses  conducted  in  this  general 
fashion,  suh?"  inquired  the  old  judge  softly. 

"No,"  admitted  Stanton,  "they  ain't  — 
the  big  ones  ain't  anyway;  but  a  lot  of  the 

[153] 


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small  ones  is.  They  gotter  do  it  because  a  cir 
cus  is  always  fair  game  for  a  sore  rube.  Once 
the  tents  come  down  a  circus  has  got  no  friends. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  he  went  on,  struck  amid 
ships  with  a  happy  notion — "I  tell  you  what 
you  do.  Lemme  swear  out  an  attachment 
against  the  band  wagon  and  the  band-wagon 
team,  and  you  go  serve  it  right  away,  sheriff. 
That'll  fix  him,  I  guess." 

"How  so?"  put  in  the  judge,  still  seeking 
information  for  his  own  enlightenment. 

"Why,  you  see,  if  you  tie  up  that  band 
wagon  Dan  Silver  can't  use  it  for  parading. 
He  ain't  got  but  just  the  one,  and  a  circus 
parade  without  a  band  wagon  will  look  pretty 
sick,  I  should  say.  It'll  look  more  like  some 
thing  else,  a  funeral,  for  example."  The 
pleased  grafter  grinned  maliciously. 

"It's  like  this  —  the  band  wagon  is  the  key 
to  the  whole  works,"  he  went  on.  "It's  the 
first  thing  off  the  lot  when  the  parade  starts  — 
the  band-wagon  driver  is  the  only  one  that  has 
the  route.  You  cut  the  band  wagon  out  and 
you've  just  naturally  got  that  parade  snarled 
up  to  hell  and  gone." 

Judge  Priest  got  upon  his  feet  and  advanced 
upon  the  exultant  stranger.  He  seemed  more 
interested  than  at  any  time. 

"Suh,"  he  asked,  "let  me  see  if  I  understand 
you  properly.  The  band  wagon  is  the  guidin' 
motive,  as  it  were,  of  the  entire  parade  —  is 
that  right?" 

[154] 


UP     CLAY     S  TRE  ET 

"  You've  got  it,"  Stan  ton  assured  him.  "  Even 
the  stock  is  trained  to  follow  the  band  wagon. 
They  steer  by  the  music  up  ahead.  Cop  the 
band  wagon  out  and  the  rest  of  'em  won't 
know  which  way  to  go  —  that's  the  rule  where- 
ever  there's  a  road  show  traveling." 

"Ah  hah,"  said  the  judge  reflectively,  "I  see." 

"But  say,  look  here,  judge,"  said  Stanton. 
"Begging  your  pardon  and  not  trying  to  rush 
you  nor  nothing,  but  if  you're  going  to  attach 
that  band  wagon  of  Dan  Silver's  for  me  you 
gotter  hurry.  That  parade  is  due  to  leave  the 
lot  in  less'n  half  an  hour  from  now." 

He  was  gratified  to  note  that  his  warning 
appeared  to  grease  the  joints  in  the  old  judge's 
legs.  They  all  three  went  straightway  to 
the  sheriff's  office,  which  chanced  to  be  only 
two  doors  away,  and  there  the  preliminaries 
necessary  to  legal  seizures  touching  on  a  certain 
described  and  specified  parade  chariot,  tableau 
car  or  band  wagon  were  speedily  completed. 
Stanton  made  oath  to  divers  allegations  and 
departed,  assiduously  combing  himself  and 
gloating  openly  over  the  anticipated  discom 
fiture  of  his  late  partner.  The  sheriff  lingered 
behind  only  a  minute  or  two  longer  while 
Judge  Priest  in  the  privacy  of  a  back  room 
impressed  upon  him  his  instructions.  Then 
he,  too,  departed,  moving  at  his  top  walking 
gait  westward  out  Jefferson  Street.  There 
was  this  that  could  be  said  for  Sheriff  Giles 
Birdsong  —  he  was  not  gifted  in  conversation 

[1551 


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nor  was  he  of  a  quick  order  of  intellect,  but  he 
knew  his  duty  and  he  obeyed  orders  literally 
when  conveyed  to  him  by  a  superior  official. 
On  occasion  he  had  obeyed  them  so  literally  — 
where  the  warrant  had  said  dead  or  alive,  for 
example  —  that  he  brought  in,  feet  first,  a 
prisoner  or  so  who  manifested  a  spirited  reluc 
tance  against  being  brought  in  any  other  way. 
And  the  instructions  he  had  now  were  highly 
explicit  on  a  certain  head. 

Close  on  Sheriff  Birdsong's  hurrying  heels 
the  judge  himself  issued  forth  from  the  sheriff's 
office.  Hailing  a  slowly  ambling  public  vehicle 
driven  by  a  languid  darky,  he  deposited  his 
person  therein  and  was  driven  away.  Observ 
ing  this  from  his  place  in  front  of  the  drug  store, 
Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  was  moved  to  remark 
generally  to  the  company:  "You  can't  tell 
me  I  wasn't  right  a  while  ago  about  [Judge 
Billy  Priest.  Look  at  him  yonder  now,  puttin' 
out  for  home  in  a  hack,  without  waitin'  for 
the  parade.  There  certainly  is  something  wrong 
with  the  judge  and  you  can't  tell  me  there 
ain't." 

If  the  judge  didn't  wait  nearly  everybody 
else  did  —  waited  with  what  patience  and 
impatience  they  might  through  a  period  that 
was  punctuated  by  a  dozen  false  alarms,  each 
marked  with  much  craning  of  elderly  necks 
and  abortive  rushes  by  younger  enthusiasts 
to  the  middle  of  the  street.  After  a  while,, 
though,  from  away  up  at  the  head  of  Jefferson 

[156  r 


UPC  LA  Y     STREET 

Street  there  came  down,  borne  along  on  the 
summer  air,  a  faint  anticipatory  blare  of  brazen 
horns,  heard  at  first  only  in  broken  snatches. 
Then,  in  a  minute  or  two,  the  blaring  resolved 
itself  into  a  connected  effort  at  melody,  with 
drums  throbbing  away  in  it.  Farmers  grabbed 
at  the  bits  of  restive  horses,  that  had  their 
ears  set  sharply  in  one  direction,  and  began 
uttering  soothing  and  admonitory  "whoas." 
The  stores  erupted  clerks  and  customers  to 
gether.  The  awning  poles  on  both  sides  of 
the  street  assumed  the  appearance  of  burdened 
grape  trellises,  bearing  ripe  black  and  white 
clusters  of  small  boys.  At  last  she  was  coming! 

She  was,  for  a  fact.  She  came  on  until  the 
thin  runlet  of  ostensible  music  became  a  fan- 
faring,  crashing  cataract  of  pleasing  and  exhila 
rating  sound,  until  through  the  dancing  dust 
could  be  made  out  the  arching,  upcurved  front 
of  a  splendid  red-and-gold  chariot.  In  front 
of  it,  like  wallowing  waves  before  the  prow  of 
a  Viking  ship,  were  the  weaving  broad  backs 
of  many  white  horses,  and  stretching  behind 
it  was  a  sinuous,  colorful  mass  crowned  with 
dancing,  distant  banner-things,  and  suggesting 
in  glintings  of  gold  and  splashings  of  flame  an 
oncoming  argosy  of  glitter  and  gorgeousness. 

She  was  coming  all  right!  But  was  she? 
A  sort  of  disappointed,  surprised  gasp  passed 
along  the  crowded  sidewalks,  and  boys  began 
sliding  down  the  awning  poles  and  running  like 
mad  up  the  street.  For  instead  of  continuing 

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straight  on  down  Jefferson,  as  all  circus  parades 
had  always  done,  the  head  of  this  one  was  seen 
now,  after  a  momentary  halt  as  of  indecision, 
to  turn  short  off  and  head  into  Clay.  But 
why  Clay  Street  —  that  was  the  question? 
Clay  Street  didn't  have  ten  houses  on  it,  all 
told,  and  it  ran  up  a  steep  hill  and  ended  in 
an  abandoned  orchard  just  beyond  the  old 
Priest  place.  Indeed  the  only  way  to  get  out 
of  Clay  Street,  once  you  got  into  it,  was  by  a 
distant  lane  that  cut  through  to  the  paralleling 
street  on  the  right.  What  would  any  circus 
parade  in  possession  of  its  sane  senses  be  doing 
going  up  Clay  Street? 

But  that  indeed  was  exactly  what  this 
parade  was  doing — with  the  added  phenomena 
of  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong  sitting  vigilantly 
erect  on  the  front  seat  of  the  band  wagon,  and 
a  band-wagon  driver  taking  orders  for  once 
from  somebody  besides  his  rightful  boss  — 
taking  them  protestingly  and  profanely,  but 
nevertheless  taking  them. 

Yes,  sir,  that's  what  she  was  doing.  The 
band  wagon,  behind  the  oblique  arc  of  its 
ten-horse  team,  was  swinging  into  Clay  Street, 
and  the  rest  of  the  procession  was  following  its 
leader  and  disappearing,  wormlike,  into  a 
tunnel  of  overarching  maples  and  silver-leaf 
poplars. 

And  so  it  moved,  slowly  and  deliberately, 
after  the  fashion  of  circus  parades,  past  some 
sparsely  scattered  cottages  that  were  mainly 

[1581 


UP     CLAY     S  TR  E  E  T 

closed  and  empty,  seeing  that  their  customary 
dwellers  were  even  now  downtown,  until  the 
head  of  it  came  to  a  particularly  shabby  little 
brown  house  that  was  not  closed  and  was  not 
empty.  From  a  window  here  looked  out  a 
worn  little  woman  and  a  little  sick  boy,  he  as 
pale  as  the  pillow  against  which  he  was  propped, 
and  from  here  they  saw  it  all  —  she  through 
tears  and  he  with  eyes  that  burned  with  a 
dumb  joy  unutterable  —  from  here  these  two 
beheld  the  unbelievable  marvel  of  it.  It  was 
almost  as  though  the  whole  unspeakable  gran 
deur  of  it  had  been  devised  for  those  eyes  alone 

—  first    the    great    grand    frigate    of    a    band 
wagon  pitching  and  rolling  as  if  in  heavy  seas, 
with  artistes  of  a  world-wide  repute  discoursing 
sweet  strains  from  its  decks,  and  drawn  not 
by  four  or  six,  but  by  ten  snow-white  Arabian 
stallions  with  red  pompons  nodding  above  their 
proud  heads  —  that  is  to  say,  they  were  snow- 
white  except  perhaps  for  a  slight  grayish  dap 
pling.     And  on  behind  this,  tailing  away  and 
away,    were   knights    and   ladies   on    mettled, 
gayly  caparisoned  steeds,  and  golden  pageant 
dens  filled   with  ferocious  rare  beasts  of  the 
jungle,  hungrily  surveying  the  surging  crowds 

—  only,  of  course,  there  weren't  any  crowds  — 
and    sun-bright    tableau    cars,     with    crystal 
mirrors  cunningly  inset  in  the  scrolled  carved 
work,  so  that  the  dancing  surfaces  caught  the 
sunlight  and  threw  it  back  into  eyes  already 
joyously    dazzled;     and    sundry    closed    cages 

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with  beautiful  historical  paintings  on  their 
sides,  suggesting  by  their  very  secrecy  the 
presence  of  marvelous  prisoned  creatures;  and 
yet  another  golden  chariot  with  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  and  her  whole  glittering  court  traveling 
in  imperial  pomp  atop  of  it. 

That  wasn't  all  —  by  no  means  was  it  all. 
There  succeeded  an  open  den  containing  the 
man-eating  Bengal  tigers,  striped  and  lank, 
with  the  intrepid  spangled  shoulders  of  the 
trainer  showing  as  he  sat  with  his  back  against 
the  bars,  holding  his  terrible  charges  in  domin 
ion  by  the  power  of  the  human  eye,  so  that  for 
the  time  being  they  dared  not  eat  anybody. 
And  then  followed  a  whole  drove  of  trick 
ponies  drawing  the  happy  family  in  its  wheeled 
home,  and  behind  that  in  turn  more  cages, 
closed,  and  a  fife-and-drum  corps  of  old  regi 
mentals  in  blue  and  buff,  playing  Yankee 
Doodle  with  martial  spirit,  and  next  the  Asiatic 
camel  to  be  known  by  his  one  hump,  and  the 
genuine  Bactrian  dromedary  to  be  known  by 
his  two,  slouching  by  as  though  they  didn't 
care  whether  school  kept  or  not,  flirting  their 
under  lips  up  and  down  and  showing  profiles 
like  Old  Testament  characters.  And  then 
came  more  knights  and  ladies  and  more  horses 
and  more  heroes  of  history  and  romance,  and 
a  veritable  herd  of  vast  and  pondrous  pachy 
derm  performers,  or  elephants  —  for  while 
one  pachyderm,  however  vast  and  pachydermic, 
might  not  make  a  herd,  perhaps,  or  even  two, 

[160] 


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yet  surely  three  would,  and  here  were  no  less 
than  three,  holding  one  another's  tails  with 
their  trunks,  which  was  a  droll  conceit  thought 
up  by  these  intelligent  creatures  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment,  no  doubt,  with  the  sole  idea 
of  giving  added  pleasure  to  a  little  sick  boy. 

That  wasn't  all  either.  There  was  more  of 
this  unapproachable  pageant  yet  winding  by  — 
including  such  wonders  as  the  glass-walled 
apartment  of  the  lady  snake-charmer,  with 
the  lady  snake-charmer  sitting  right  there  in 
imminent  peril  of  her  life  amidst  her  loathsome, 
coiling  and  venomous  pets ;  and  also  there  was 
Judge  Priest's  Jeff,  hardly  to  be  recognized 
in  a  red-and-yellow  livery  as  he  led  the  far- 
famed  sacred  ox  of  India;  and  then  the  funny 
old  clown  in  his  little  blue  wagon,  shouting  out 
"Whoa,  January"  to  his  mule  and  dodging 
back  as  January  kicked  up  right  in  his  face, 
and  last  of  all  —  a  crowning  glory  to  all  these 
other  glories  —  the  steam  calliope,  whistling 
and  blasting  and  shrilling  and  steaming,  fit 
to  split  itself  wide  open ! 

You  and  I,  reader,  looking  on  at  this  with 
gaze  unglamoured  by  the  eternal,  fleeting  spirit 
of  youth,  might  have  noted  in  the  carping  light 
of  higher  criticism  that  the  oriental  trappings 
had  been  but  poor  shoddy  stuffs  to  begin  with, 
and  were  now  all  torn  and  dingy  and  shedding 
their  tarnished  spangles;  might  have  noted 
that  the  man-eating  tigers  seemed  strangely 
bored  with  life,  and  that  the  venomous  serpents 

[161] 


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draped  upon  the  form  of  the  lady  snake-charmer 
were  languid,  not  to  say  torpid,  to  a  degree 
that  gave  the  lady  snake-charmer  the  appear 
ance  rather  of  a  female  suspender  pedler,  carry 
ing  her  wares  hung  over  her  shoulders.  We 
might  have  observed  further  had  we  been  so 
minded  —  as  probably  we  should  —  that  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  bore  somewhat  a  weather- 
beaten  look  and  held  a  quite  common-appearing 
cotton  umbrella  with  a  bone  handle  over  her 
regal  head;  that  the  East-Indian  mahout  of 
the  elephant  herd  needed  a  shave,  and  that 
there  were  mud-stained  overalls  and  brogan 
shoes  showing  plainly  beneath  the  flowing 
robes  of  the  Arabian  camel-driver.  We  might 
even  have  guessed  that  the  biggest  tableau  car 
was  no  more  than  a  ticket  wagon  in  thin  disguise, 
and  that  the  yapping  which  proceeded  from  the 
largest  closed  cage  indicated  the  presence  merely 
of  a  troupe  of  uneasy  performing  poodles. 

But  to  the  transported  vision  of  the  little 
sick  boy  in  the  little  brown  house  there  were 
no  flaws  in  it  anywhere  —  it  was  all  too  splendid 
for  words,  and  so  he  spoke  no  words  at  all  as  it 
wound  on  by.  The  lurching  shoulders  of  the 
elephants  had  gone  over  the  hill  beyond  and 
on  down,  the  sacred  ox  of  India  had  passed 
ambling  from  sight,  the  glass  establishment  of 
the  snake-charmer  was  passing,  and  January  and 
the  clown  wagon  and  the  steam  calliope  were 
right  in  front  of  the  Hammersmith  house,  when 
something  happened  on  ahead,  and  for  a  half 

[162] 


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minute  or  so  there  was  a  slowing-up  and  a 
closing-up  and  a  halting  of  everything. 

Although,  of  course,  the  rear  guard  didn't 
know  it  for  the  time  being,  the  halt  was  occa 
sioned  by  the  fact  that  when  the  band  wagon 
reached  the  far  end  of  Clay  Street,  with  the 
orchard  trees  looming  dead  ahead,  the  sheriff, 
riding  on  the  front  seat  of  the  band  wagon, 
gave  an  order.  The  band-wagon  driver  instantly 
took  up  the  slack  of  the  reins  that  flowed 
through  his  fingers  in  layers,  so  that  they 
stopped  right  in  front  of  Judge  Priest's  house, 
where  Judge  Priest  stood  leaning  on  his  gate. 
The  sheriff  made  a  sort  of  saluting  motion  of 
his  fingers  against  the  brim  of  his  black  slouch 
hat. 

"Accordin'  to  orders,  Your  Honor,"  he 
stated  from  his  lofty  perch. 

At  this  there  spoke  up  another  man,  the 
third  and  furthermost  upon  the  wide  seat 
of  the  band  wagon,  and  this  third  man  was 
no  less  a  personage  than  Daniel  P.  Silver 
himself,  and  he  was  as  near  to  bursting  with 
bottled  rage  as  any  man  could  well  be  and  still 
remain  whole,  and  he  was  as  hoarse  as  a  frog 
from  futile  swearing. 

"What  in  thunder  does  this  mean — "  he 
began,  and  then  stopped  short,  being  daunted 
by  the  face  which  Sheriff  Giles  Birdsong  turned 
upon  him. 

"Look  here,  mister,"  counseled  the  sheriff, 
"you  air  now  in  the  presence  of  the  presidin' 

[163] 


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judge  of  the  first  judicial  district  of  Kintucky, 
settin'  in  chambers,  or  what  amounts  to  the 
same  thing,  and  you  air  liable  to  git  yourself 
into  contempt  of  cote  any  minute." 

Baffled,  Silver  started  to  swear  again,  but 
in  a  lower  key. 

"You  better  shut  up  your  mouth,"  said  the 
sheriff  with  a  shifting  forward  of  his  body  to 
free  his  limbs  for  action,  "and  listen  to  whut 
His  Honor  has  to  say.  You  act  like  you  was 
actually  anxious  to  git  yourself  lamed  up." 

"Sheriff,"  said  the  judge,  "obeyin'  your 
orders  you  have,  I  observe,  attached  certain 
properties  —  to  wit,  a  band  wagon  and  team 
of  horses  —  and  still  obeyin'  orders,  have  pro 
duced  said  articles  before  me  for  my  inspection. 
You  will  continue  in  personal  possession  of 
same  until  said  attachment  is  adjudicated,  not 
allowin'  any  person  whatsoever  to  remove  them 
from  your  custody.  Do  I  make  myself  suffi 
ciently  plain?" 

"Yes,  suh,  Your  Honor,"  said  the  sheriff. 
"You  do." 

"In  the  meanwhile,  pendin'  the  termina 
tion  of  the  litigation,  if  the  recent  possessor 
of  this  property  desires  to  use  it  for  exhibition 
or  paradin'  purposes,  you  will  permit  him  to  do 
so,  always  within  proper  bounds,"  went  on 
the  judge.  "I  would  suggest  that  you  could 
cut  through  that  lane  yonder  in  order  to  reach 
the  business  section  of  our  city,  if  such  should 
be  the  desire  of  the  recent  possessor." 

[1641 


UP     CLAY     STREET 


The  heavy  wheels  of  the  band  wagon  began 
turning;  the  parade  started  moving  on  again. 
But  in  that  precious  half-minute's  halt  some 
thing  else  had  happened,  only  this  happened 
in  front  of  the  little  brown  house  halfway  down 
Clay  Street.  The  clown's  gaze  was  roving 
this  way  and  that,  as  if  looking  for  the  crowd 
that  should  have  been  there  and  that  was  only 
just  beginning  to  appear,  breathless  and  pant 
ing,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  wasted,  wizened 
little  face  looking  straight  out  at  him  from  a 
nest  of  bedclothes  in  a  window  not  thirty  feet 
away;  and  —  be  it  remembered  among  that 
clown's  good  deeds  in  the  hereafter  —  he 
stood  up  and  bowed,  and  stretched  his  painted, 
powdered  face  in  a  wide  and  gorgeous  grin, 
just  as  another  and  a  greater  Grimaldi  once 
did  for  just  such  another  audience  of  a  grieving 
mother  and  a  dying  child.  Then  he  yelled 
"Whoa,  January,"  three  separate  times,  and 
each  time  he  poked  January  in  his  long-suffer 
ing  flanks  and  each  time  January  kicked  up  his 
small  quick  hoofs  right  alongside  the  clown's 
floury  ears. 

The  steam  calliope  man  had  an  inspiration 
too.  He  was  a  person  of  no  great  refinement, 
the  calliope  man,  and  he  worked  a  shell  game 
for  his  main  source  of  income  and  lived  rough 
and  lived  hard,  so  it  may  not  have  been  an 
inspiration  after  all,  but  merely  the  happy 
accident  of  chance.  But  whether  it  was  or  it 
wasn't,  he  suddenly  and  without  seeming 

[165] 


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reason  switched  from  the  tune  he  was  playing 
and  made  his  calliope  sound  out  the  first  bars 
of  the  music  which  somebody  once  set  to  the 
sweetest  childhood  verses  that  Eugene  Field 
ever  wrote  —  the  verses  that  begin : 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 
But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 

And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 
And  his  musket  molds  in  his  hands. 

The  parade  resumed  its  march  then  and  went 
on,  tailing  away  through  the  dappled  sunshine 
under  the  trees,  and  up  over  the  hill  and  down 
the  other  side  of  it,  but  the  clown  looked  back 
as  he  scalped  the  crest  and  waved  one  arm,  in 
a  baggy  calico  sleeve,  with  a  sort  of  friendly 
goodby  motion  to  somebody  behind  him;  and 
as  for  the  steam  calliope  man,  he  kept  on  play 
ing  the  Little  Boy  Blue  verses  until  he  dis 
appeared. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  still  playing 
them  when  he  passed  a  wide-porched  old  white 
house  almost  at  the  end  of  the  empty  street, 
where  a  stout  old  man  in  a  wrinkly  white 
linen  suit  leaned  across  a  gate  and  regarded 
the  steam  calliope  man  with  a  satisfied,  almost 
a  proprietorial  air. 


166 


VI 

WHEN    THE    FIGHTING    WAS 
GOOD 


"It   yTISTER    SHERIFF,"    ordered    the 
%/•     Judge,   "bring  Pressley   G.   Harper 

__  Y_|_  to  the  bar." 

Judge  Priest,  as  I  may  have  set 
forth  before,  had  two  habits  of  speech — one 
purposely  ungrammatical  and  thickly  larded 
with  the  vernacular  of  the  country  crossroads 
—  that  was  for  his  private  walks  and  conver 
sations,  and  for  his  campaignings;  but  the 
other  was  of  good  and  proper  and  dignified 
English,  and  it  he  reserved  for  official  acts  and 
utterances.  Whether  upon  the  bench  or  off 
it,  though,  his  voice  had  that  high-pitched, 
fiddle-string  note  which  carried  far  and  clearly; 
and  on  this  day,  when  he  spoke,  the  sheriff 
roused  up  instantly  from  where  he  had  been 
enjoying  forty  winks  between  the  bewhittled 
arms  of  a  tilted  chair  and  bestirred  himself. 

He  hurried  out  of  a  side  door.     A  little, 

[167] 


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whispering,  hunching  stir  went  through  the 
courtroom.  Spectators  reclining  upon  the 
benches,  partly  on  their  spines  and  partly  on 
their  shoulderblades,  straightened  and  bent 
forward.  Inside  the  rail,  which  set  apart  the 
legal  goats  from  the  civic  sheep,  a  score  of  eyes 
were  fixed  speculatively  upon  the  judge's  face, 
rising  above  the  top  of  the  tall,  scarred  desk 
where  he  sat;  but  his  face  gave  no  clew  to  his 
thoughts;  and  if  the  mind  back  of  the  benefi 
cent,  mild  blue  eyes  was  troubled,  the  eyes 
themselves  looked  out  unvexed  through  the 
steel-bowed  spectacles  that  rode  low  on  the 
old  judge's  nose. 

There  was  a  minute's  wait.  The  clerk 
handed  up  to  the  judge  a  sheaf  of  papers  in 
blue  wrappers.  The  judge  shuffled  through 
them  until  he  found  the  one  he  wanted.  It 
was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  a  luscious 
spring  day  —  the  last  day  of  the  spring  term 
of  court.  In  at  the  open  windows  came  spicy, 
moist  smells  of  things  sprouting  and  growing, 
and  down  across  the  courthouse  square  the 
big  star-shaped  flowers  of  the  dogwood  trees 
showed  white  and  misty,  like  a  new  Milky 
Way  against  a  billowy  green  firmament. 

A  minute  only  and  then  the  sheriff  reentered. 
At  his  side  came  a  man.  This  newcomer  must 
have  been  close  to  seventy  years  —  or  sixty- 
five,  anyway.  He  was  long  and  lean,  and  he 
bore  his  height  with  a  sort  of  alert  and  supple 
erectness,  stepping  high,  with  the  seemingly 

[168J 


WHEN    THE    FIGHTING    WAS    GOOD 

awkward  gait  of  the  man  trained  at  crossing 
furrows,  yet  bringing  his  feet  down  noiselessly, 
like  a  house-cat  treading  on  dead  leaves.  The 
way  he  moved  made  you  think  of  a  deerstalker. 
Strength,  tremendous  strength,  was  shown  in 
the  outward  swing  of  the  long  arms  and  the 
huge,  knotty  hands,  and  there  was  temper  in 
the  hot,  brown  eyes  and  in  the  thick,  stiff  crop 
of  reddish-gray  hair,  rising  like  buckwheat 
stubble  upon  his  scalp.  He  had  high  cheek 
bones  and  a  long,  shaven  face,  and  his  skin  was 
tanned  to  a  leathery  red,  like  a  well-smoked 
ham.  Except  for  the  colors  of  his  hair  and 
eyes,  he  might  have  passed  for  half  Indian. 
Indeed,  there  was  a  tale  in  the  county  that  his 
great-grandmother  was  a  Shawnee  squaw.  He 
was  more  than  six  feet  tall  —  he  must  have  been 
six  feet  two. 

With  the  sheriff  alongside  him  he  came  to  the 
bar  —  a  sagged  oaken  railing  —  and  stood 
there  with  his  big  hands  cupped  over  it.  He 
was  newly  shaved  and  dressed  in  what  was 
evidently  his  best. 

"Pressley  G.  Harper  at  the  bar,"  sang  out 
the  clerk  methodically.  Everybody  was  listen 
ing. 

"Pressley  G.  Harper,"  said  the  judge,  "waiv 
ing  the  benefit  of  counsel  and  the  right  of  trial 
by  jury,  you  have  this  day  pleaded  guilty  to  an 
indictment  charging  you  with  felonious  assault 
in  that  you  did,  on  the  twenty-first  day  of 
January  last,  shoot  and  wound  with  a  firearm 

[169] 


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one  Virgil  Settle,  a  citizen  of  this  county.  Have 
you  anything  to  say  why  the  sentence  of  the 
law  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  you?" 

Only  eying  him  steadfastly,  the  confessed 
offender  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  the  judgment  of  this  court,  then,  that 
you  be  confined  in  the  state  penitentiary  for  the 
period  of  two  years  at  hard  labor." 

A  babbling  murmur  ran  over  the  room  — 
for  his  skis  old  Press  Harper  was  catching  it  at 
last.  The  prisoner's  hands  gripped  the  oaken 
rail  until  his  knuckles  and  nails  showed  white, 
and  it  seemed  that  the  tough  wood  fibers  would 
be  dented  in;  other  than  that  he  gave  no  sign, 
but  took  the  blow  braced  and  steady,  like  a 
game  man  facing  a  firing  squad.  The  sheriff 
inched  toward  him;  but  the  judge  raised  the 
hand  that  held  the  blue-wrappered  paper  as  a 
sign  that  he  had  more  to  say. 

"Pressley  G.  Harper,"  said  the  judge,  "prob 
ably  this  is  not  the  time  or  the  place  for  the 
court  to  say  how  deeply  it  regrets  the  necessity 
of  inflicting  this  punishment  upon  you.  This 
court  has  known  you  for  many  years  —  for  a 
great  many  years.  You  might  have  been  a 
worthy  citizen.  You  have  been  of  good  repute 
for  truthfulness  and  fair  dealing  among  your 
neighbors;  but  you  have  been  beset,  all  your 
life,  with  a  temper  that  was  your  abiding  curse, 
and  when  excited  with  liquor  you  have  been  a 
menace  to  the  safety  of  your  fellowman.  Time 
and  time  again,  within  the  recollection  of  this 

1170] 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

court,  you  have  been  involved  in  unseemly 
brawls,  largely  of  your  own  making.  That  you 
were  generally  inflamed  with  drink,  and  that 
you  afterward  seemed  genuinely  penitent  and 
made  what  amends  you  could,  does  not  serve 
to  excuse  you  in  the  eyes  of  the  law.  That  you 
have  never  taken  a  human  life  outright  is  a 
happy  accident  of  chance. 

"Through  the  leniency  of  those  appointed  to 
administer  the  law  you  have  until  now  escaped 
the  proper  and  fitting  consequences  of  your 
behavior;  but,  by  this  last  wanton  attack  upon 
an  inoffensive  citizen,  you  have  forfeited  all 
claim  upon  the  consideration  of  the  designated 
authorities." 

He  paused  for  a  little,  fumbling  at  the  bow 
of  his  spectacles. 

"  In  the  natural  course  of  human  events  you 
have  probably  but  a  few  more  years  to  live. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  by  all  right-thinking  men 
that  you  cannot  go  to  your  grave  free  from  the 
stigma  of  a  prison.  And  it  is  a  blessing  that 
you  have  no  one  closely  related  to  you  by  ties 
of  blood  or  marriage  to  share  in  your  disgrace." 
The  old  judge's  high  voice  grew  husked  and 
roughened  here,  he  being  himself  both  widowed 
and  childless.  "The  judgment  of  the  court 
stands  —  two  years  at  hard  labor." 

He  made  a  sign  that  he  was  done.  The 
sheriff  edged  up  again  and  touched  the  sentenced 
man  upon  the  arm.  Without  turning  his 
head,  Harper  shook  off  the  hand  of  authority 

[171] 


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with  so  violent  a  shrug  that  the  sheriff  dodged 
back,  startled.  Then  for  the  first  time  the 
prisoner  spoke. 

"Judge,  Your  Honor,"  he  said  quietly, 
"jest  a  minute  ago  you  asked  me  if  I  had  any 
thing  to  say  and  I  told  you  that  I  had  not.  I've 
changed  my  mind;  I  want  to  ask  you  some 
thing  —  I  want  to  ask  you  a  mighty  big  favor. 
No,  I  ain't  askin'  you  to  let  me  off  —  it  ain't 
that,"  he  went  on  more  quickly,  reading  the 
look  on  the  judge's  face.  "I  didn't  expect  to 
come  clear  in  this  here  case.  I  pleaded  guilty 
because  I  was  guilty  and  didn't  have  no  defense. 
My  bein'  sorry  for  shootin'  Virge  Settle  the 
way  I  did  don't  excuse  me,  as  I  know;  but, 
Judge  Priest,  I'll  say  jest  this  to  you  —  I  don't 
want  to  be  dragged  off  to  that  there  penitentiary 
like  a  savage  dumb  beast.  I  don't  want  to  be 
took  there  by  no  sheriff.  And  what  I  want  to 
ask  you  is  this :  Can't  I  go  there  a  free  man,  with 
free  limbs?  I  promise  you  to  go  and  to  serve 
my  time  faithful  —  but  I  want  to  go  by  myself 
and  give  myself  up  like  a  man." 

Instantly  visualized  before  the  eyes  of  all  who 
sat  there  was  the  picture  which  they  knew  must 
be  in  the  prisoner's  mind  —  the  same  picture 
which  all  or  nearly  all  of  them  had  seen  more 
than  once,  since  it  came  to  pass,  spring  and 
fall,  after  each  term  of  court  —  a  little  procession 
filing  through  the  street  to  the  depot;  at  its 
head,  puffed  out  with  responsibility,  the  sheriff 
and  one  of  his  deputies  —  at  its  tail  more 

[172  J 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

deputies,  and  in  between  them  the  string  of 
newly  convicted  felons,  handcuffed  in  twos, 
with  a  long  trace-chain  looping  back  from  one 
pair  to  the  next  pair,  and  so  on,  binding  all  fast 
together  in  a  clanking  double  file — the  whites 
in  front  and  the  negroes  back  of  them,  main 
taining  even  in  that  shameful  formation  the 
division  of  race;  the  whites  mainly  marching 
with  downcast  heads  and  hurrying  feet,  clutch 
ing  pitiably  small  bundles  with  their  free  hands 
—  the  negroes  singing  doggerel  in  chorus  and 
defiantly  jingling  the  links  of  their  tether; 
some,  the  friendless  ones,  hatless  and  half 
naked,  and  barefooted  after  months  of  lying 
in  jail  —  and  all  with  the  smell  of  the  frowsy 
cells  upon  them.  And,  seeing  this  familiar 
picture  spring  up  before  them,  it  seemed  all 
of  a  sudden  a  wrong  thing  and  a  very  shameful 
thing  that  Press  Harper,  an  old  man  and  a 
member  of  a  decent  family,  should  march  thus, 
with  his  wrists  chained  and  the  offscourings  and 
scum  of  the  county  jail  for  company.  All  there 
knew  him  for  a  man  of  his  word.  If  old  Press 
Harper  said  he  would  go  to  the  penitentiary 
and  surrender  himself  they  knew  he  would  go 
and  do  it  if  he  had  to  crawl  there  on  his  knees. 
And  so  now,  having  made  his  plea,  he  waited 
silently  for  the  answer. 

The  old  judge  had  half  swung  himself  about 
in  his  chair  and  with  his  hand  at  his  beard  was 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Mister  Sheriff,"  he  said,  without  turning 

[1731 


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his  head,  "you  may  consider  yourself  relieved 
of  the  custody  of  the  defendant  at  the  bar. 
Mister  Clerk,  you  may  make  out  the  commit 
ment  papers."  The  clerk  busied  himself  with 
certain  ruled  forms,  filling  in  dotted  lines  with 
writing.  The  judge  went  on:  "Despite  the 
irregularity  of  the  proceeding,  this  court  is 
disposed  to  grant  the  request  which  the  defend 
ant  has  just  made.  Grievous  though  his  short 
comings  in  other  directions  may  have  been, 
this  court  has  never  known  the  defendant  to 
break  his  word.  Does  the  defendant  desire  any 
time  in  which  to  arrange  his  personal  affairs? 
If  so  how  much  time?" 

"I  would  like  to  have  until  the  day  after 
tomorrow,"  said  Harper.  "If  I  kin  I  want  to 
find  a  tenant  for  my  farm." 

"Has  the  commonwealth's  attorney  any 
objection  to  the  granting  of  this  delay?" 
inquired  the  judge,  still  with  his  head  turned 
away. 

"None,  Your  Honor,"  said  the  prosecutor, 
half  rising.  And  now  the  judge  was  facing 
the  prisoner,  looking  him  full  in  the  eye. 

"You  will  go  free  on  your  own  recognizance, 
without  bond,  until  the  day  after  tomorrow," 
he  bade  him.  "You  will  then  report  yourself 
to  the  warden  of  the  state  penitentiary  at 
Frankfort.  The  clerk  of  this  court  will  hand 
you  certain  documents  which  you  will  surrender 
to  the  warden  at  the  same  time  that  you  sur 
render  yourself." 

[174! 


WHEN    THE    FIGHTING    WAS    GOOD 

The  tall  old  man  at  the  rail  bowed  his  head 
to  show  he  understood,  but  he  gave  no  thanks 
for  the  favor  vouchsafed  him,  nor  did  the  other 
old  man  on  the  bench  seem  to  expect  any  thanks. 
The  clerk's  pen,  racing  across  the  ruled  sheets, 
squeaked  audibly. 

"This  consideration  is  granted,  though,  upon 
one  condition,"  said  the  judge,  as  though  a  new 
thought  had  just  come  to  him.  "And  that  is, 
that  between  this  time  and  the  time  you  begin 
serving  your  sentence  you  do  not  allow  a  drop 
of  liquor  to  cross  your  lips.  You  promise  that?  " 

"I  promise  that,"  said  Harper  slowly  and 
soberly,  like  a  man  taking  a  solemn  oath. 

No  more  was  said.  The  clerk  filled  out  the 
blanks  —  two  of  them  —  and  Judge  Priest 
signed  them.  The  clerk  took  them  back  from 
him,  folded  them  inside  a  long  envelope;  backed 
the  envelope  with  certain  writings,  and  handed 
it  over  the  bar  rail  to  Harper.  There  wasn't  a 
sound  as  he  stowed  it  carefully  into  an  inner 
pocket  of  his  ill-fitting  black  coat;  nor,  except 
for  the  curiously  light  tread  of  his  own  steps, 
was  there  a  sound  as  he,  without  a  look  side- 
wise,  passed  down  the  courtroom  and  out  at 
the  doorway. 

"Mister  Clerk,"  bade  Judge  Priest,  "adjourn 
the  present  term  of  this  court." 

As  the  crowd  filed  noisily  out,  old  Doctor 
Lake,  who  had  been  a  spectator  of  all  that 
happened,  lingered  behind  and,  with  a  nod  and 
a  gesture  to  the  clerk,  went_round  behind  the 

[175] 


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jury-box  and  entered  the  door  of  the  judge's 
private  chamber,  without  knocking.  The  lone 
occupant  of  the  room  stood  by  the  low,  open 
window,  looking  out  over  the  green  square. 
He  was  stuffing  the  fire-blackened  bowl  of 
his  corncob  pipe  with  its  customary  fuel;  but 
his  eyes  were  not  on  the  task,  or  his  fingers 
trembled  —  or  something;  for,  though  the 
pipe  was  already  packed  to  overflowing,  he 
still  tamped  more  tobacco  in,  wasting  the 
shreddy  brown  weed  upon  the  floor. 

"Come  in,  Lew,  and  take  a  chair  and  set 
down,"  he  said.  Doctor  Lake,  however,  in 
stead  of  taking  a  chair  and  sitting  down,  crossed 
to  the  window  and  stood  beside  him,  putting 
one  hand  on  the  judge's  arm. 

"That  was  pretty  hard  on  old  Press,  Billy,'* 
said  Doctor  Lake. 

Judge  Priest  was  deeply  sensitive  of  all  out 
side  criticism  pertaining  to  his  official  conduct; 
his  life  off  the  bench  was  another  matter.  He 
stiffened  under  the  touch. 

"Lewis  Lake,"  he  said  —  sharply  for  him  — 
"I  don't  permit  even  my  best  friends  to  discuss 
my  judicial  acts." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,  Billy,"  Doctor  Lake 
made  haste  to  explain.  "I  wasn't  thinking  so 
much  of  what  happened  just  now  in  the  court 
yonder.  I  reckon  old  Press  deserved  it  —  he's 
been  running  hog- wild  round  this  town  and  this 
county  too  long  already.  Let  him  get  that 
temper  of  his  roused  and  a  few  drinks  in  him, 

[176j 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING    WAS     GOOD 

and  he  is  a  regular  mad  dog.  Nobody  can 
deny  that.  Of  course  I  hate  it  —  and  I  know 
you  do  too  —  to  see  one  of  the  old  company  — 
one  of  the  boys  who  marched  out  of  here  with 
us  in  '61  —  going  to  the  pen.  That's  only 
natural;  but  I'm  not  finding  fault  with  your 
sending  him  there.  What  I  was  thinking  of  is 
that  you're  sending  him  over  the  road  day  after 
tomorrow." 

"What  of  that?"   asked  the  judge. 

"Why,  day  after  tomorrow  is  the  day  we're 
starting  for  the  annual  reunion,"  said  Doctor 
Lake;  "and,  Billy,  if  Press  goes  on  the  noon 
train  —  which  he  probably  will  —  he'll  be 
traveling  right  along  with  the  rest  of  us  —  for  a 
part  of  the  way.  Only  he'll  get  off  at  the 
Junction,  and  we  —  well,  we'll  be  going  on 
through,  the  rest  of  us  will,  to  the  reunion. 
That's  what  I  meant." 

"That's  so!"  said  the  judge  regretfully  — 
"that's  so!  I  did  forget  all  about  the  reunion 
startin'  then  —  I  plum'  forgot  it.  I  reckin  it 
will  be  sort  of  awkward  for  all  of  us  —  and  for 
Press  in  particular."  He  paused,  holding  the 
unlighted  and  overflowing  pipe  in  his  hands 
absently,  and  then  went  on: 

"Lewis,  when  a  man  holds  an  office  such  as 
mine  is  he  has  to  do  a  lot  of  things  he  hates 
mightily  to  do.  Now  you  take  old  Press 
Harper's  case.  I  reckin  there  never  was  a 
braver  soldier  anywhere  than  Press  was.  Do 
you  remember  Brice's  Crossroads?" 

[  177  ] 


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"Yes,"  said  the  old  doctor,  his  eyes  suddenly 
afire.  "Yes,  Billy  —  and  Vicksburg  too." 

"Ah-hah!"  went  on  the  old  judge  —  "and 
the  second  day's  fight  at  Chickamauga,  when 
we  lost  so  many  out  of  the  regiment,  and  Press 
came  back  out  of  the  last  charge,  draggin'  little 
Gil  Nicholas  by  the  arms,  and  both  of  them 
purty  nigh  shot  to  pieces?  Yes,  suh;  Press 
always  was  a  fighter  when  there  was  any  fightin' 
to  do  —  and  the  fightin'  was  specially  good  in 
them  days.  The  trouble  with  Press  was  he 
didn't  quit  fightin'  when  the  rest  of  us  did. 
Maybe  it  sort  of  got  into  his  blood.  It  does 
do  jest  that  sometimes,  I  judge." 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  Lake,  "I  suppose  you're 
right;  but  old  Press  is  in  a  fair  way  to  be  cured 
now.  A  man  with  his  temper  ought  never  to 
touch  whisky  anyhow." 

"You're  right,"  agreed  the  judge.  "It's 
a  dangerous  thing,  licker  is  —  and  a  curse  to 
some  people.  I'd  like  to  have  a  dram  right 
this  minute.  Lew,  I  wish  mightily  you'd  come 
on  and  go  home  with  me  tonight  and  take 
supper.  I'll  send  my  nigger  boy  Jeff  up  to 
your  house  to  tell  your  folks  you  won't  be 
there  until  late,  and  you  walk  on  out  to  my 
place  with  me.  I  feel  sort  of  played  out  and 
lonesome  —  I  do  so.  Come  on  now.  We'll 
have  a  young  chicken  and  a  bait  of  hot  waffles 
—  I  reckin  that  old  nigger  cook  of  mine  does 
make  the  best  waffles  in  the  created  world. 
After  supper  we'll  set  a  spell  together  and  talk 

[1781 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

over  them  old  times  when  we  were  in  the  army 
-  and  maybe  we  can  kind  of  forget  some  of  the 
things  that've  come  up  later." 

The  noon  accommodation  would  carry  the 
delegation  from  Gideon  K.  Irons  Camp  over 
the  branch  line  to  the  Junction,  where  it  would 
connect  with  a  special  headed  through  for 
the  reunion  city.  For  the  private  use  of  the 
Camp  the  railroad  company  provided  a  car 
which  the  ladies  of  the  town  decorated  on  the 
night  before  with  draped  strips  of  red  and  white 
bunting  down  the  sides,  and  little  battle-flags 
nailed  up  over  the  two  doors.  The  rush  of 
the  wind  would  soon  whip  away  the  little 
crossed  flags  from  their  tack  fastenings  and 
roll  the  bunting  streamers  up  into  the  semblance 
of  peppermint  sticks;  but  the  car,  hitched  to 
the  tail  end  of  the  accommodation  and  sur 
rounded  by  admiring  groups  of  barelegged 
small  boys,  made  a  brave  enough  show  when 
its  intended  passengers  came  marching  down 
a  good  half  hour  ahead  of  leaving-time. 

Considering  the  wide  swath  which  death 
and  the  infirmities  of  age  had  been  cutting  in 
the  ranks  all  these  years,  the  Camp  was  sending 
a  good  representation  —  Judge  Priest,  the 
commandant;  and  Doctor  Lake;  and  Major 
Joe  Sam  Covington;  and  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby,  who  never  missed  a  reunion;  and  Cor 
poral  Jake  Smedley,  the  color-bearer,  with  the 
Camp's  flag  furled  on  its  staff  and  borne  under 

[179] 


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his  arm;  and  Captain  Shelby  Woodward  - 
and  four  or  five  more.  There  was  even  one 
avowed  private.  Also,  and  not  to  be  over 
looked  on  any  account,  there  was  Uncle  Zach 
Matthews,  an  ink-black,  wrinkled  person,  with 
a  shiny  bald  head  polished  like  old  rosewood, 
and  a  pair  of  warped  legs  bent  outward  like 
saddlebows.  Personally  Uncle  Zach  was  of 
an  open  mind  regarding  the  merits  and  the 
outcome  of  the  Big  War.  As  he  himself  often 
put  it: 

"Yas,  suh  —  I  ain't  got  no  set  prejudices 
ary  way.  In  de  spring  of  '61  I  went  out  wid 
my  own  w'ite  folks,  as  body-sarvant  to  my 
young  marster,  Cap'n  Harry  Matthews  — 
and  we  suttinly  did  fight  dem  bluebellies  up 
hill  and  down  dale  fer  three  endurin'  years  or 
more;  but  in  de  campaignin'  round  Nashville 
somewhars  I  got  kind  of  disorganized  and  turn't 
round  someway;  and,  when  I  sorter  comes  to 
myself,  lo  and  behole,  ef  I  ain't  been  captured 
by  de  Fed'rul  army!  So,  rather 'n  have  any 
fussin'  'bout  it,  I  j'ined  in  wid  dem;  and  frum 
den  on  till  de  surrender  I  served  on  de  other 
side  —  cookin'  fer  one  of  their  gin'els  and  doin' 
odd  jobs  round  de  camp;  but  when  'twas  all 
over  I  come  on  back  home  and  settled  down 
ag'in  'mongst  my  own  folks,  where  I  properly 
belonged.  Den,  yere  a  few  years  back,  some 
of  'em  turn't  in  and  done  some  testify  in'  fer 
me  so's  I  could  git  my  pension.  Doctor  Lake, 
he  says  to  me  hisse'f,  he  says;  'Zach,  bein' 

[180] 


WHEN    THE    FIGHTING    WAS    GOOD 

as  de  Yankee  Gover'mint  is  a  passin'  out  dis 
yere  money  so  free  you  might  jess  as  well  have 
a  little  chunk  of  it  too ! '  And  he  —  him  and 
Mistah  Charley  Reed  and  some  others,  they 
helped  me  wid  my  papers;  and,  of  course,  I 
been  mighty  grateful  to  all  dem  gen'l'men  ever 
since." 

So  Uncle  Zach  drew  his  pension  check 
quarterly,  and  regularly  once  a  year  went  to 
the  reunion  as  general  factotum  of  the  Camp, 
coming  home  laden  with  badges  and  heavy 
with  small  change.  He  and  Judge  Priest's 
Jeff,  who  was  of  the  second  generation  of 
freedom,  now  furnished  a  touch  of  intense 
color  relief,  sitting  together  in  one  of  the  rear 
most  seats,  guarding  the  piled-up  personal 
baggage  of  the  veterans. 

Shortly  before  train-time  carriages  came, 
bringing  young  Mrs.  McLaurin,  little  Rita 
Covington  and  Miss  Minnie  Lyon  —  the  matron 
of  honor,  the  sponsor  and  the  maid  of  honor 
respectively  of  the  delegation.  Other  towns 
no  larger  would  be  sure  to  send  a  dozen  or  more 
sponsors  and  maids  and  matrons  of  honor; 
but  the  home  Camp  was  proverbially  moderate 
in  this  regard.  As  Captain  Woodward  had 
once  said:  "We  are  charmed  and  honored  by 
the  smiles  of  our  womanhood,  and  we  worship 
every  lovely  daughter  of  the  South;  but,  at  a 
reunion  of  veterans,  somehow  I  do  love  to  see 
a  veteran  interspersed  here  and  there  in  among 
the  fair  sex." 

[181] 


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So  now,  as  their  special  guests  for  this  most 
auspicious  occasion,  they  were  taking  along 
just  these  three  —  Rita  Covington,  a  little 
eighteen-year-old  beauty,  and  Minnie  Lyon, 
a  tall,  fair,  slender,  pretty  girl,  and  Mrs.  Mc- 
Laurin.  The  two  girls  were  in  white  linen, 
with  touches  of  red  at  throat  and  waist;  but 
young  Mrs.  McLaurin,  who  was  a  bride  of  two 
years'  standing  and  plump  and  handsome, 
looked  doubly  handsome  and  perhaps  a  wee 
mite  plumper  than  common  in  a  tailor-made 
suit  of  mouse-gray,  that  was  all  tricked  out 
with  brass  buttons  and  gold-braided  cuffs, 
and  a  wide  black  belt,  with  a  cavalry  buckle. 
That  the  inspired  tailor  who  built  this  costume 
had  put  the  stars  of  a  major-general  on  the 
collar  and  the  stripes  of  a  corporal  on  the  sleeve 
was  a  matter  of  no  consequence  whatsoever. 
The  color  was  right,  the  fit  of  the  coat  was 
unflawed  by  a  single  wrinkle  fore  or  aft,  and 
the  brass  buttons  poured  like  molten  gold  down 
the  front.  Originally  young  Mrs.  McLaurin 
had  intended  to  reserve  her  military  suit  for  a 
crowning  sartorial  stroke  on  the  day  of  the  big 
parade;  but  at  the  last  moment  pride  of  posses 
sion  triumphed  over  the  whisperings  of  dis 
cretion,  and  so  here  she  was  now,  trig  and 
triumphant  —  though,  if  it  must  be  confessed, 
a  trifle  closely  laced  in.  Yet  she  found  an 
immediate  reward  in  the  florid  compliments  of 
the  old  men.  She  radiated  her  satisfaction 
visibly  as  Doctor  Lake  and  Captain  Woodward 

[182] 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

ushered  her  and  her  two  charges  aboard  the  car 
with  a  ceremonious,  Ivanhoeish  deference,  which 
had  come  down  with  them  from  their  day  to  this, 
like  the  scent  of  old  lavender  lingering  in  ancient 
cedar  chests. 

A  further  martial  touch  was  given  by  the  gray 
coats  of  the  old  men,  by  the  big  Camp  badges 
and  bronze  crosses  proudly  displayed  by  all, 
and  finally  by  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby,  who, 
true  to  a  habit  of  forty  years'  standing,  was 
wearing  the  rent  and  faded  jacket  that  he 
brought  home  from  the  war,  and  carrying  on 
his  shoulder  the  ancient  rusted  musket  that 
had  served  him  from  Sumter  to  the  fall  of 
Richmond. 

The  last  of  the  party  was  on  the  decorated 
coach,  the  last  ordinary  traveler  had  boarded 
the  single  day-coach  and  the  conductor  was 
signaling  for  the  start,  when  an  erect  old  man, 
who  all  during  the  flurry  of  departure  had  been 
standing  silent  and  alone  behind  the  protecting 
shadow  of  the  far  side  of  the  station,  came 
swiftly  across  the  platform,  stepping  with  a 
high,  noiseless,  deerstalker's  tread,  and,  just 
as  the  engine  bleated  its  farewell  and  the  wheels 
began  to  turn,  swung  himself  on  the  forward 
car.  At  sight  of  two  little  crossed  flags  flutter 
ing  almost  above  his  head  he  lifted  his  slouch 
hat  in  a  sort  of  shamed  salute;  but  he  kept  his 
face  turned  resolutely  away  from  those  other 
old  men  to  the  rear  of  him.  He  cramped  his 
great  length  down  into  a  vacant  seat  in  the  day- 

[183] 


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coach,  and  there  he  sat,  gazing  straight  ahead 
at  nothing,  as  the  train  drew  out  of  the  station, 
bearing  him  to  his  two  years  at  hard  labor  and 
these  one-time  comrades  of  his  to  their  jubila 
ting  at  the  annual  reunion. 

As  for  the  train,  it  went  winding  its  leisurely 
and  devious  way  down  the  branch  line  toward 
the  Junction,  stopping  now  and  then  at  small 
country  stations.  The  air  that  poured  in 
through  the  open  windows  was  sweet  and  heavy 
with  Maytime  odors  of  blossoming  and  bloom 
ing.  In  the  tobacco  patches  the  adolescent 
plants  stood  up,  fresh  and  velvet-green. 
Mating  red  birds  darted  through  every  track- 
side  tangle  of  underbrush  and  wove  threads 
of  living  flame  back  and  forth  over  every 
sluggish,  yellow  creek;  and  sparrowhawks 
teetered  above  the  clearings,  hunting  early 
grasshoppers.  Once  in  a  while  there  was  a 
small  cotton-patch. 

It  was  warm  —  almost  as  warm  as  a  summer 
day.  The  two  girls  fanned  themselves  with 
their  handkerchiefs  and  constantly  brushed 
cinders  off  their  starched  blouses.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Laurin,  buttoned  in  to  her  rounded  throat, 
sat  bolt-upright,  the  better  to  keep  wrinkles 
from  marring  the  flawless  fit  of  her  regimentals. 
She  suffered  like  a  Christian  martyr  of  old, 
smiling  with  a  sweet  content  —  as  those  same 
Christian  martyrs  are  said  to  have  suffered 
and  smiled.  Judge  Priest,  sitting  one  seat  to 
the  rear  of  her,  with  Major  Covington  along- 

[184] 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

side  him,  napped  lightly  with  his  head  against 
the  hot  red  plush  of  the  seat-back.  Sergeant 
Jimmy  Bagby  found  the  time  fitting  and  the 
audience  receptive  to  his  celebrated  and  more 
than  familiar  story  of  what  on  a  certain  history- 
making  occasion  he  heard  General  Breckin- 
ridge  say  to  General  Buckner,  and  what  General 
Buckner  said  to  General  Breckinridge  in  reply. 

In  an  hour  or  so  they  began  to  draw  out  of 
the  lowlands  fructifying  in  the  sunlight,  and 
in  among  the  craggy  foothills.  Here  the  knobs 
stood  up,  like  the  knuckle-bones  of  a  great 
rough  hand  laid  across  the  peaceful  countryside. 
"Deadenings"  flashed  by,  with  the  girdled, 
bleached  tree-trunks  rising,  deformed  and  gaunt, 
above  the  young  corn.  The  purplish  pink  of 
the  redbud  trees  was  thick  in  clumps  on  the 
hillsides.  The  train  entered  a  cut  with  a  steep 
fill  running  down  on  one  side  and  a  seamed  cliff 
standing  close  up  on  the  other.  Small  saplings 
grew  out  of  the  crannies  in  the  rocks  and  swung 
their  boughs  downward  so  that  the  leaves 
almost  brushed  the  dusty  tops  of  the  coaches 
sliding  by  beneath  them. 

Suddenly,  midway  of  this  cut,  there  came  a 
grinding  and  sliding  of  the  wheels  —  the  cars 
began  creaking  in  all  their  joints  as  though 
they  would  rack  apart;  and,  with  a  jerk  which 
wakened  Judge  Priest  and  shook  the  others  in 
their  seats,  the  train  halted.  From  up  ahead 
somewhere,  heard  dimly  through  the  escape 
of  the  freed  steam,  came  a  confusion  of  shouted 

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cries.  Could  they  be  nearing  the  Junction 
so  soon?  Mrs.  McLaurin  felt  in  a  new  hand 
bag  —  of  gray  broadcloth  with  a  gold  clasp,  to 
match  her  uniform  —  for  a  powder-rag.  Then 
sheshrank  cowering  back  in  her  place,  for  leaping 
briskly  up  the  car  steps  there  appeared,  framed 
in  the  open  doorway  just  beyond  her,  an  armed 
man  —  a  short,  broad  man  in  a  flannel  shirt 
and  ragged  overalls,  with  a  dirty  white  hand 
kerchief  bound  closely  over  the  bridge  of  his 
nose  and  shielding  the  lower  part  of  his  face. 
A  long-barreled  pistol  was  in  his  right  hand 
and  a  pair  of  darting,  evilly  disposed  eyes  looked 
into  her  startled  ones  from  under  the  brim  of 
a  broken  hat. 

"Hands  up,  everybody!"  he  called  out, 
and  swung  his  gun  right  and  left  from  his 
hip,  so  that  its  muzzle  seemed  to  point  all 
ways  at  once.  "  Hands  up,  everybody  —  and 
keep  'em  up!" 

Behind  this  man,  back  to  back  with  him, 
was  the  figure  of  another  man,  somewhat  taller, 
holding  similar  armed  dominion  over  the 
astounded  occupants  of  the  day-coach.  This 
much,  and  this  much  only,  in  a  flash  of  time 
was  seen  by  Uncle  Zach  Matthews  and  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff,  as,  animated  by  a  joint  instan 
taneous  impulse,  they  slid  off  their  seat  at  the 
other  end  of  the  car  and  lay  embraced  on  the 
floor,  occupying  a  space  you  would  not  have 
believed  could  have  contained  one  darky  - 
let  alone  two.  And  it  was  seen  more  fully  and 

[186] 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING    WAS     GOOD 

at  greater  length  by  the  gray  veterans  as  their 
arms  with  one  accord  rose  stiffly  above  the 
level  of  their  heads;  and  also  it  was  seen  by  the 
young  matron,  the  sponsor  and  the  maid  of 
honor,  as  they  huddled  together,  clinging  to 
one  another  desperately  for  the  poor  comfort 
of  close  contact.  Little  Rita  Covington,  white 
and  still,  looked  up  with  blazing  gray  eyes  into 
the  face  of  the  short  man  with  the  pistol.  She 
had  the  palms  of  both  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
against  her  ears.  Rita  was  brave  enough  — 
but  she  hated  the  sound  of  firearms.  Where 
she  half  knelt,  half  crouched,  she  was  almost 
under  the  elbow  of  the  intruder. 

The  whole  thing  was  incredible  —  it  was 
impossible!  Train  robberies  had  passed  out 
of  fashion  years  and  years  before.  Here  was 
this  drowsing,  quiet  country  lying  just  outside 
the  windows,  and  the  populous  Junction  only  a 
handful  of  miles  away;  but,  incredible  or  not, 
there  stood  the  armed  trampish  menace  in  the 
doorway,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  an  accom 
plice.  And  from  outside  and  beyond  there  came 
added  evidence  to  the  unbelievable  truth  of 
it  in  the  shape  of  hoarse,  unintelligible  com 
mands  rising  above  a  mingling  of  pointless  out 
cries  and  screams. 

"Is  this  a  joke,  sir,  or  what?"  demanded 
Major  Covington,  choking  with  an  anger  born 
of  his  own  helplessness  and  the  undignifiedness 
of  his  attitude. 

"Old  gent,  if  you  think  it's  a  joke  jest  let 

[187] 


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me  ketch  you  lowerin'  them  arms  of  yourn," 
answered  back  the  yeggman.  His  words 
sounded  husky,  coming  muffled  through  the 
handkerchief;  but  there  was  a  grim  threat 
in  them,  and  for  just  a  breathless  instant  the 
pistol-barrel  stopped  wavering  and  centered 
dead  upon  the  major's  white-vested  breast. 

"Set  right  still,  major,"  counseled  Judge 
Priest  at  his  side,  not  taking  his  eyes  off  the 
muffled  face.  "He's  got  the  drop  on  us." 

"But  to  surrender  without  a  blow  —  and 
we  all  old  soldiers  too!"  lamented  Major 
Covington,  yet  making  no  move  to  lower  his 
arms. 

"I  know  —  but  set  still,"  warned  Judge 
Priest,  his  puckered  glance  taking  toll  side 
ways  of  his  fellow  travelers  —  all  of  them 
with  chagrin,  amazement  and  indignation  writ 
large  upon  their  faces,  and  all  with  arms  up 
and  palms  opened  outward  like  a  calisthenic 
class  of  elderly  gray  beards  frozen  stiff  and  solid 
in  the  midst  of  some  lung-expanding  exercise. 
Any  other  time  the  picture  would  have  been 
funny;  but  now  it  wasn't.  And  the  hold-up 
man  was  giving  his  further  orders. 

"This  ain't  no  joke  and  it  ain't  no  time  for 
foolin'.  I  gotter  work  fast  and  you  all  gotter 
keep  still,  or  somebody'll  git  crippled  up  bad!" 

With  his  free  hand  he  pulled  off  his  broken 
derby,  revealing  matted  red  hair,  with  a  dirty 
bald  spot  in  the  front.  He  held  the  hat  in 
front  of  him,  crown  down. 

[188] 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

"I'm  goin'  to  pass  through  this  car,"  lie 
announced,  "and  I  want  everybody  to  con 
tribute  freely.  You  gents  will  lower  one  hand 
at  a  time  and  git  yore  pokes  and  kettles  — 
watches  and  wallets  —  out  of  yore  clothes. 
And  remember,  no  monkey  business  —  no 
goin'  back  to  yore  hip  pockets  —  unless  you 
wanter  git  bored  with  this!"  he  warned;  and 
he  followed  up  the  warning  with  a  nasty  word 
which  borrowed  an  added  nastiness  coming 
through  his  rag  mask. 

His  glance  flashed  to  the  right,  taking  in  the 
quivering  figures  of  the  two  girls  and  the  young 
woman.  "Loidies  will  contribute  too,"  he 
added. 

"Oh!"  gasped  Mrs.  McLaurin  miserably; 
and  mechanically  her  right  hand  went  across  to 
protect  the  slender  diamond  bracelet  on  her 
left  wrist;  while  tall  Miss  Lyon,  crumpled  and 
trembling,  pressed  herself  still  farther  against 
the  side  of  the  car,  and  Rita  Covington  in 
voluntarily  clutched  the  front  of  her  blouse, 
her  fingers  closing  over  the  little  chamois-skin 
bag  that  hung  hidden  there,  suspended  by  a 
ribbon  about  her  throat.  Rita  was  an  only 
daughter  and  a  pampered  one;  her  father  was 
the  wealthiest  man  in  town  and  she  owned 
handsomer  jewels  than  an  eighteen-year-old 
girl  commonly  possesses.  The  thief  caught 
the  meaning  of  those  gestures  and  his  red- 
rimmed  eyes  were  greedy. 

"You  dog,  you!"   snorted  old  Doctor  Lake; 

[1891 


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and  he,  like  the  major,  sputtered  in  the  impo 
tence  of  his  rage.  "You're  not  going  to  rob 
these  ladies  too?" 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  rob  these  loidies  too," 
mimicked  the  thief.  "And  you,  old  gent, 
you'd  better  cut  out  the  rough  talk."  With 
out  turning  his  head,  and  with  his  pistol  making 
shifting  fast  plays  to  hold  the  car  in  subjection, 
he  called  back:  "Slim,  there's  richer  pickin' 
here  than  we  expected.  If  you  can  leave  them 
rubes  come  help  me  clean  up." 

"Just  a  second,"  was  the  answer  from  be 
hind  him,  "till  I  git  this  bunch  hypnotized 
good." 

"Now  then,"  called  the  red-haired  man, 
swearing  vilely  to  emphasize  his  meaning, 
"as  I  said  before,  cough  up!  Loidies  first — 
you!"  And  he  motioned  with  his  pistol  toward 
Mrs.  McLaurin  and  poked  his  hat  out  at  her. 
Her  trembling  fingers  fumbled  at  the  clasp  of 
her  bracelet  a  moment  and  the  slim  band  fell 
flashing  into  the  hat. 

"You  are  no  gentleman  —  so  there!"  qua 
vered  the  unhappy  lady,  as  a  small,  gemmed 
watch  with  a  clasp,  and  a  silver  purse,  followed 
the  bracelet.  Bessie  Lyon  shrank  farther  and 
farther  away  from  him,  with  sobbing  intakes 
of  her  breath.  She  was  stricken  mute  and  help 
less  with  fear. 

"Now  then,"  the  red-haired  man  was  address 
ing  Rita,  "you  next.  Them  purties  you've 
got  hid  there  inside  yore  shirt  —  I'll  trouble 

[190]' 


'NOW    THEN.    YOU    NEXT." 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

you  for  them!  Quick  now!"  he  snarled,  seeing 
that  she  hesitated.  "Git  'em  out!" 

"I  ca-n't,"  she  faltered,  and  her  cheeks 
reddened  through  their  dead  pallor;  "my 
waist — buttons — behind.  I  can't  and  I  won't." 

The  thief  shifted  his  derby  hat  from  his  left 
hand  to  his  right,  holding  it  fast  with  his  little 
finger  hooked  under  the  brim,  while  the  other 
fingers  kept  the  cocked  revolver  poised  and 
ready. 

"I'll  help  you,"  he  said;  and  as  the  girl 
tried  to  dodge  away  from  him  he  shoved  a 
stubby  finger  under  the  collar  of  her  blouse  and 
with  a  hard  jerk  ripped  the  lace  away,  leaving 
her  white  neck  half  bare.  At  her  cry  and  the 
sound  of  the  tearing  lace  her  father  forgot  the 
threat  of  the  gunbarrel  —  forgot  everything. 

"You  vile  hound!"  he  panted.  "Keep 
your  filthy  hand  off  of  my  daughter!"  And 
up  he  came  out  of  his  seat.  And  old  Judge 
Priest  came  with  him,  and  both  of  them  lunged 
forward  over  the  seatback  at  the  ruffian,  three 
feet  away. 

So  many  things  began  to  happen  then, 
practically  all  simultaneously,  that  never  were 
any  of  the  active  participants  able  to  recall 
exactly  just  what  did  happen  and  the  order  of 
the  happening.  It  stood  out  afterward,  though, 
from  a  jumble  of  confused  recollections,  that 
young  Mrs.  McLaurin  screamed  and  fainted; 
that  Bessie  Lyon  fainted  quietly  without 
screaming;  and  that  little  Rita  Covington 

[1911 


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neither  fainted  nor  screamed,  but  snatched  out 
ward  with  a  lightning  quick  slap  of  her  hand 
at  the  fist  of  the  thief  which  held  the  pistol,  so 
that  the  bullet,  exploding  out  of  it  with  a  jet  of 
smoke,  struck  in  the  aisle  instead  of  striking 
her  father  or  Judge  Priest.  It  was  this  bullet, 
the  first  and  only  one  fired  in  the  whole  mix-up, 
that  went  slithering  diagonally  along  the  car 
floor,  guttering  out  a  hole  like  a  worm-track 
in  the  wood  and  kicking  up  splinters  right  in 
the  face  of  Uncle  Zach  Matthews  and  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff  as  they  lay  lapped  in  tight  embrace, 
so  that  they  instantly  separated  and  rose,  like 
a  brace  of  flushed  blackbirds,  to  the  top  of  the 
seat  in  front.  From  that  point  of  vantage, 
with  eyes  popped  and  showing  white  all  the  way 
round,  they  witnessed  what  followed  in  the 
attitude  of  quiveringly  interested  onlookers. 
All  in  an  instant  they  saw  Major  Coving- 
ton  and  Judge  Priest  struggling  awkwardly 
with  the  thief  over  the  intervening  seatback, 
pawing  at  him,  trying  to  wrest  his  hot  weapon 
away  from  him;  saw  Mrs.  McLaurin's  head 
roll  back  inertly;  saw  the  other  hold-up  man 
pivot  about  to  come  to  his  beleaguered  partner's 
aid;  and  saw,  filling  the  doorway  behind  this 
second  ruffian,  the  long  shape  of  old  man  Press 
Harper,  as  he  threw  himself  across  the  joined 
platforms  upon  their  rear,  noiseless  as  a  snake 
and  deadly  as  one,  his  lean  old  face  set  in  a 
square  shape  of  rage,  his  hot  red  hair  erect  on 
his  head  like  a  Shawnee's  scalplock,  his  gaunt, 

[192] 


WHEN    THE     FIGHTING    WAS     GOOD 

long  arms  upraised  and  arched  over  and  his 
big  hands  spread  like  grapples.  And  in  that 
same  second  the  whole  aisle  seemed  filled  with 
gray-coated,  gray-haired  old  men,  falling  over 
each  other  and  impeding  each  other's  move 
ments  in  their  scrambling  forward  surge  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  fight. 

To  the  end  of  their  born  days  those  two 
watching  darkies  had  a  story  to  tell  that  never 
lost  its  savor  for  teller  or  for  audience  —  a  story 
of  how  a  lank,  masked  thief  was  taken  by  sur 
prise  from  behind ;  was  choked,  crushed,  beaten 
into  instant  helplessness  before  he  had  a  chance 
to  aim  and  fire;  then  was  plucked  backward, 
lifted  high  in  the  arms  of  a  man  twice  his  age 
and  flung  sidelong,  his  limbs  flying  like  a  whirli 
gig  as  he  rolled  twenty  feet  down  the  steep 
slope  to  the  foot  of  the  fill.  But  this  much 
was  only  the  start  of  what  Uncle  Zach  and  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff  had  to  tell  afterward. 

For  now,  then,  realizing  that  an  attack  was 
being  made  on  his  rear,  the  stockier  thief  broke 
Judge  Priest's  fumbling  grip  upon  his  gun-hand 
and  half  swung  himself  about  to  shoot  the 
unseen  foe,  whoever  it  might  be;  but,  as  he 
jammed  its  muzzle  into  the  stomach  of  the 
newcomer  and  pressed  the  trigger,  the  left 
hand  of  old  Harper  closed  down  fast  upon  the 
lock  of  the  revolver,  so  that  the  hammer, 
coming  down,  only  pinched  viciously  into  his 
horny  thumb.  Breast  to  breast  they  wrestled 
in  that  narrow  space  at  the  head  of  the  aisle 

[1931 


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for  possession  of  the  weapon.  The  handker 
chief  mask  had  fallen  away,  showing  brutal 
jaws  covered  with  a  red  stubble,  and  loose 
lips  snarled  away  from  the  short  stained  teeth. 
The  beleaguered  robber,  young,  stocky  and 
stout,  cursed  and  mouthed  blasphemies;  but 
the  old  man  was  silent  except  for  his  snorted 
breathing  and  his  frame  was  distended  and 
swollen  with  a  terrible  Berserker  lust  of  battle. 

While  Major  Covington  and  Judge  Priest 
and  the  foremost  of  the  others  got  in  one 
another's  way  and  packed  in  a  solid,  heaving 
mass  behind  the  pair,  all  shouting  and  all  trying 
to  help,  but  really  not  helping  at  all,  the  red 
ruffian,  grunting  with  the  fervor  of  the  blow, 
drove  his  clenched  fist  into  old  Harper's  face, 
ripping  the  skin  on  the  high  Indian  cheekbone. 
The  old  man  dealt  no  blows  in  return,  but  his 
right  hand  found  a  grip  in  the  folds  of  flesh  at 
the  tramp's  throat  and  the  fingers  closed  down 
like  iron  clamps  on  his  wind. 

There  is  no  telling  how  long  a  man  of  Harper's 
age  and  past  habits  might  have  maintained  the 
crushing  strength  of  that  hold,  even  though 
rage  had  given  him  the  vigor  of  bygone  youth; 
but  the  red-stubbled  man,  gurgling  and  wrig 
gling  to  be  free,  began  to  die  of  suffocation  before 
the  grip  weakened.  To  save  himself  he  let  go 
of  the  gunbutt,  and  the  gun  fell  and  bounced 
out  of  sight  under  a  seat.  Bearing  down  with 
both  hands  and  all  his  might  and  weight  upon 
Harper's  right  wrist,  he  tore  the  other's  clasp 

[194] 


WHEN    THE    FIGHTING    WAS    GOOD 

off  his  throat  and  staggered  back,  drawing  the 
breath  with  sobbing  sounds  back  into  his  burst 
ing  lungs.  He  would  have  got  away  then  if  he 
could,  and  he  turned  as  though  to  flee  the 
length  of  the  car  and  escape  by  the  rear  door. 

The  way  was  barred,  by  whooping,  panting 
old  men,  hornet-hot.  Everybody  took  a  hand 
or  tried  to.  The  color-bearer  shoved  the  staff 
of  the  flag  between  his  legs  and  half  tripped  him, 
and  as  he  regained  his  feet  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby,  jumping  on  a  seat  to  get  at  him  over 
the  bobbing  heads  of  his  comrades,  dealt  him 
a  glancing,  clumsy  blow  on  the  shoulder  with 
the  muzzle  of  his  old  musket.  Major  Coving- 
ton  and  Judge  Priest  were  still  right  on  him, 
bearing  then*  not  inconsiderable  bulk  down 
upon  his  shoulders. 

He  could  have  fought  a  path  through  these 
hampering  forces.  Wrestling  and  striking  out, 
he  half  shoved,  half  threw  them  aside;  but 
there  was  no  evading  the  gaunt  old  man  who 
bore  down  on  him  from  the  other  direction. 
The  look  on  the  face  of  the  old  warlock  daunted 
him.  He  yelled  just  once,  a  wordless  howl  of 
fear  and  desperation,  and  the  yell  was  smothered 
back  into  his  throat  as  Harper  coiled  down  on 
him  like  a  python,  fettering  with  his  long  arms 
the  shorter,  thicker  arms  of  the  thief,  crushing 
his  ribs  in,  smothering  him,  killing  him  with  a 
frightful  tightening  pressure.  Locked  fast  in 
Harper's  embrace,  he  went  down  on  his  back 
underneath;  and  now  —  all  this  taking  place 

[  195  ] 


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much  faster  than  it  has  taken  me  to  write  it 
or  you  to  read  it  —  the  old  man  reared  himself 
up.  He  put  his  booted  foot  squarely  on  the 
contorted  face  of  the  yeggman  and  twisted  the 
heel  brutally,  like  a  man  crushing  a  worm,  and 
mashed  the  thief's  face  to  pulp.  Then  he 
seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  shirt,  dragged 
him  like  so  much  carrion  back  the  length  of 
the  car,  the  others  making  a  way  for  him,  and, 
with  a  last  mighty  heave,  tossed  him  off  the 
rear  platform  and  stood  watching  him  as  he 
flopped  and  rolled  slackly  down  the  steep  grade 
of  the  right-of-way  to  the  gully  at  the  bottom. 
All  this  young  Jeff  and  Uncle  Zach  witnessed, 
and  at  the  last  they  began  cheering.  As  they 
cheered  there  was  a  whistle  of  the  air  and  the 
cars  began  to  move — slowly  at  first,  with  hard 
jerks  on  the  couplings;  and  then  smoother  and 
faster  as  the  wheels  took  hold  on  the  rails,  and 
the  track-joints  began  to  click-clack  in  regular 
rhythm.  And,  as  the  train  slid  away,  those 
forward  who  mustered  up  the  hardihood  to 
peer  out  of  the  windows  saw  one  man  —  a  red- 
haired,  half-bald  one  —  wriggling  feebly  at 
the  foot  of  the  cut,  and  another  one  struggling 
to  his  feet  uncertainly,  meanwhile  holding  his 
hands  to  his  stunned  head;  and,  still  farther 
along,  a  third,  who  fled  nimbly  up  the  bank 
and  into  the  undergrowth  beyond,  without  a 
backward  glance.  Seemingly,  all  told,  there 
had  been  only  three  men  concerned  in  the 
abortive  holdup. 

[196  ] 


WHEN    THE     FIGHTING    WAS    GOOD 

Throughout  its  short  length  the  train  sizzled 
with  excitement  and  rang  with  the  cries  of 
some  to  go  on  and  of  others  to  go  back  and  make 
prisoners  of  the  two  crippled  yeggs;  but  the 
conductor,  like  a  wise  conductor,  signaled  the 
engineer  to  make  all  speed  ahead,  being  glad 
enough  to  have  saved  his  train  and  his  passen 
gers  whole.  On  his  way  through  to  take  an 
inventory  of  possible  damage  and  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  things,  he  was  delayed  in  the  day- 
coach  by  the  necessity  of  calming  a  hysterical 
country  woman,  so  he  missed  the  best  part  of 
what  was  beginning  to  start  in  the  decorated 
rear  coach. 

There  Mrs.  McLaurin  and  tall  Miss  Lyon 
were  emerging  from  their  fainting  fits,  and 
little  Rita  Covington,  now  that  the  danger 
was  over  and  past,  wept  in  a  protecting  crook 
of  her  father's  arm.  Judge  Priest's  Jeff  was 
salvaging  a  big  revolver,  with  one  chamber 
fired,  from  under  a  seat.  Eight  or  nine  old 
men  were  surrounding  old  Press  Harper,  all 
talking  at  once,  and  all  striving  to  pat  him  on 
the  back  with  clumsy,  caressing  slaps.  And  out 
on  the  rear  platform,  side  by  side,  stood  Ser 
geant  Jimmy  Bagby  and  Corporal  Jake  Smedley ; 
the  corporal  was  wildly  waving  his  silk  flag, 
now  unfurled  to  show  the  blue  St.  Andrew's 
cross,  white-starred  on  a  red  background,waving 
it  first  up  and  down  and  then  back  and  forth 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  arms,  until  the  silk 
square  popped  and  whistled  in  the  air  of  the 

[197] 


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rushing  train;  the  sergeant  was  going  through 
the  motions  of  loading  and  'aiming  and  firing 
his  ancient  rusted  musket.  And  at  each 
imaginary  discharge  both  of  them,  in  a  cracked 
duet,  cheered  for  Jefferson  Davis  and  the 
Southern  Confederacy! 

Just  about  then  the  locomotive  started 
whistling  for  the  Junction;  outlying  sheds 
and  shanties,  a  section  house  and  a  water- 
tank  or  so  began  to  flitter  by.  At  the  first 
blast  of  the  whistle  all  the  lingering  fire  of 
battle  and  victory  faded  out  of  Harper's  face 
and  he  sat  down  heavily  in  a  seat,  fumbling 
at  the  inner  breast  pocket  of  his  coat.  There 
was  a  bloody  smear  high  up  on  his  cheek  and 
blood  dripped  from  the  ball  of  his  split  thumb. 

"Boys,  there's  some  fight  left  in  us  yet," 
exulted  Captain  Shelby  Woodward,  "and  no 
body  knows  it  better  than  those  two  scoundrels 
back  yonder !  We  all  took  a  hand  —  we  all 
did  what  we  could;  but  it  was  you,  Press  — 
it  was  you  that  licked  'em  both  —  single- 
handed!  Boys,"  he  roared,  glancing  about 
him,  "won't  this  make  a  story  for  the  reunion 
— and  won't  everybody  there  be  making  a  fuss 
over  old  Press!"  He  stopped  then — remem 
bering. 

"I  don't  go  through  with  you,"  said  old 
Press,  steadily  enough.  "I  git  off  here.  You 
fellers  are  goin'  on  through  —  but  I  git  off  here 
to  wait  for  the  other  train." 

"You  don't  do  no  such  of  a  thing!"  broke 

[1981 


WHEN     THE     FIGHTING     WAS     GOOD 

in  Judge  Priest,  his  voice  whanging  like  a  bow 
string.  "Press  Harper,  you  don't  do  no  such 
of  a  thing.  You  give  me  them  papers!"  he 
demanded  almost  roughly.  "  You're  goin'  right 
on  through  to  the  reunion  with  the  rest  of  us  — 
that's  where  you're  goin'.  You  set  right  where 
you  are  in  this  car,  and  let  little  Rita  Covington 
wipe  that  there  blood  off  your  face  and  tie  up 
that  thumb  of  yours.  Why,  Press,  we  jest 
naturally  couldn't  get  along  without  you  at  the 
reunion.  Some  of  us  are  liable  to  celebrate 
a  little  too  much  and  maybe  git  a  mite  over 
taken,  and  we'll  be  needin'  you  to  take  care 
of  us. 

"You  see,  boys,"  the  old  judge  went  on, 
with  a  hitch  in  his  voice,  addressing  them 
generally,  "Press  here  is  under  a  pledge 
to  me  not  to  touch  another  drop  of  licker  till 
he  begins  servin'  the  sentence  I  imposed  on 
him;  and,  boys,  that  means  Press  is  goin' 
to  be  a  temperance  man  for  the  balance  of  his 
days  —  if  I  know  anything  about  the  pardonin' 
power  and  the  feelin's  of  the  governor  of  this 
state!" 

So,  as  the  accommodation  ran  in  to  the 
Junction,  where  crowds  were  packed  on  the 
platform  and  pretty  girls,  dressed  in  white, 
with  touches  of  red  at  throat  and  belt,  waved 
handkerchiefs,  and  gimpy-legged  old  men  in 
gray  uniforms  hobbled  stiffly  back  and  forth, 
and  the  local  band  blared  out  its  own  peculiar 
interpretation  of  My  Old  Kentucky  Home,  the 

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tall  old  man  with  the  gashed  cheek  sat  in  his 
seat,  his  face  transfigured  with  a  great  light 
of  joy  and  his  throat  muscles  clicking  with  the 
sobs  he  was  choking  down,  while  little  Rita 
Covington's  fingers  dabbed  caressingly  at  his 
wound  with  a  handkerchief  dipped  in  ice  water 
and  a  dozen  old  veterans  jostled  one  another 
to  shake  his  hand.  And  they  hit  him  on  the 
back  with  comradely  blows  —  and  maybe  they 
did  a  little  crying  themselves.  But  Sergeant 
Jimmy  Bagby  and  Corporal  Jacob  Smedley 
took  no  part  in  this.  Out  on  the  rear  platform 
they  still  stood,  side  by  side,  waving  the  flag 
and  firing  the  unfirable  musket  harder  and 
faster  than  ever;  and,  as  one  waved  and  the 
other  loaded  and  fired,  they  cheered  together: 
"'Rah  for  Jefferson  Davis,  the  Southern  Con 
federacy —  and  Pressley  G.  Harper!" 


[200] 


VII 

STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 


AS   THE    Daily    Evening    News,    with 
pardonable    enthusiasm,    pointed    out 
at  the  time,  three  events  of  practically 
national    importance    took    place    in 
town  all  in  that  one  week.     On  Tuesday  night 
at  9:37  there  was  a  total  eclipse  of  the  moon, 
not  generally   visible  throughout  the  United 
States;    on  Wednesday  morning  the  Tri-State 
Steam   and   Hand   Laundrymen's   Association 
began   a  two-days  annual  convention  at  St. 
Clair  Hall;    and  on   Saturday   at  high  noon 
Eastern  capital,  in  the  person  of  J.  Hayden 
Witherbee,  arrived. 

And  the  greatest  of  these  was  Witherbee. 
The  eclipse  of  the  moon  took  place  on  its 
appointed  schedule  and  was  witnessed  through 
opera  glasses  and  triangular  fragments  of 
windowpane  that  had  been  smudged  with 
candlesmoke.  The  Tri-State  Laundrymen 
came  and  heard  reports,  elected  officers,  had 
a  banquet  at  the  Richland  House  and  departed 

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to  their  several  homes.  But  J.  Hayden  Wither- 
bee  stayed  on,  occupying  the  bridal  chamber 
at  the  hotel  —  the  one  with  the  private  bath 
attached;  and  so  much  interest  and  specula 
tion  did  his  presence  create,  and  so  much  space 
did  the  Daily  Evening  News  give  in  its  valued 
columns  to  his  comings  and  goings  and  his 
sayings  and  doings,  that  the  name  of  J.  Hayden 
Witherbee  speedily  became,  as  you  might  say, 
a  household  word  throughout  the  breadth  and 
length  of  the  Daily  Evening  News'  circulation. 
It  seemed  that  J.  Hayden  Witherbee,  sitting 
there  in  his  lofty  office  building  far  away  in 
Wall  Street,  New  York,  had  had  his  keen  eye 
upon  the  town  for  some  time;  and  yet  —  such 
were  the  inscrutable  methods  of  the  man  —  the 
town  hadn't  known  anything  about  it,  hadn't 
even  suspected  it.  However,  he  had  been 
watching  its  growth  with  the  deepest  interest; 
and  when,  by  the  count  of  the  last  United 
States  census,  it  jumped  from  seventh  in  popu 
lation  in  the  state  to  fifth  he  could  no  longer 
restrain  himself.  He  got  aboard  the  first 
train  and  came  right  on.  He  had,  it  would 
appear,  acted  with  such  promptness  because, 
in  his  own  mind,  he  had  already  decided  that 
the  town  would  make  an  ideal  terminal  point 
for  his  proposed  Tobacco  &  Cotton  States 
Interurban  Trolley  line,  which  would  in  time 
link  together  with  twin  bonds  of  throbbing 
steel  —  the  words  are  those  of  the  reporter  for 
the  Daily  Evening  News  —  no  less  than  twenty- 

[202] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

two  growing  towns,  ranging  southward  from 
the  river.  Hence  his  presence,  exuding  from 
every  pore,  as  it  were,  the  very  essences  of 
power  and  influence  and  money.  The  paper 
said  he  was  one  of  the  biggest  men  in  Wall 
Street,  a  man  whose  operations  had  been  always 
conducted  upon  the  largest  scale. 

This,  within  the  space  of  three  or  four  months, 
had  been  our  second  experience  of  physical 
contact  with  Eastern  capital.  The  first  one, 
though,  had  been  in  the  nature  of  a  disappoint 
ment.  A  man  named  Betts  —  Henry  Betts  — 
had  come  down  from  somewhere  in  the  North 
and,  for  a  lump  sum,  had  bought  outright  the 
city  gasworks.  It  was  not  such  a  big  lump 
sum,  because  the  gasworks  had  been  built 
right  after  the  war  and  had  thereafter  remained 
untouched  by  the  stimulating  hand  of  improve 
ment.  They  consisted  in  the  main  of  a  crumbly 
little  brick  engine  house,  full  of  antiquated  and 
self-willed  machinery,  and  just  below  it,  on 
the  riverbank,  a  round  and  rusted  gas  tank, 
surrounded  by  sloping  beds  of  coal  cinders, 
through  which  at  times  sluggish  rivulets  of 
molten  coal  tar  percolated  like  lava  on  the  flanks 
of  a  toy  volcano.  The  mains  took  in  only  the 
old  part  of  town  —  not  the  new  part;  and  the 
quality  of  illumination  furnished  was  so  flickery 
at  all  seasons  and  so  given  to  freezing  up  in 
winter  that  many  subscribers,  including  even 
the  leading  families,  used  coal-oil  lamps  in 
their  bedchambers  until  the  electric  power 

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house  was  built.  A  stock  company  of  exceed 
ingly  conservative  business  men  had  owned  the 
gasworks  prior  to  the  advent  of  Henry  Betts, 
and  the  general  manager  of  the  plant  had  been 
Cassius  Poindexter,  a  fellow  townsman.  Cash 
Poindexter  was  a  man  who,  in  his  day,  had 
tried  his  'prentice  hand  at  many  things.  At 
one  time  he  traveled  about  in  a  democrat 
wagon,  taking  orders  for  enlarging  crayon 
portraits  from  photographs  and  tintypes,  and 
also  for  the  frames  to  accompany  the  same. 
At  a  more  remote  period  he  had  been  the 
authorized  agent,  on  commission,  for  a  light 
ning-rod  company,  selling  rods  with  genuine 
guaranteed  platinum  tips;  and  rusty  iron 
stringers,  with  forked  tails,  which  still  adhered 
to  outlying  farm  buildings  here  and  there  in 
the  county,  testified  to  his  activities  in  this 
regard.  Again,  Cash  Poindexter  had  held 
the  patent  rights  in  four  counties  for  an  im 
proved  cream  separator.  In  the  early  stages 
of  the  vogue  for  Belgian-hare  culture  in  this 
country  he  was  the  first  to  import  a  family 
group  of  these  interesting  animals  into  our 
section.  He  had  sold  insurance  of  various 
sorts,  including  life,  fire  and  cyclone;  he  was 
a  notary  public;  he  had  tried  real  estate,  and 
he  had  once  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  having 
read  lawbooks  and  works  on  medicine  simul 
taneously.  But  in  these,  his  later  years,  he 
had  settled  down  more  or  less  and  had  become 
general  manager  of  the  gasworks,  which 

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STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

position  also  included  the  keeping  of  the  books, 
the  reading  of  meters  and  the  making  out  and 
collecting  of  the  monthly  accounts.  Never 
theless,  he  was  understood  to  be  working  at 
spare  moments  on  an  invention  that  would 
make  him  independently  wealthy  for  life.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin,  sad  man,  with  long,  drooping 
side  whiskers;  and  he  was  continually  comb 
ing  back  his  side  whiskers  with  both  hands 
caressingly,  and  this  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  man  parting  a  pair  of  string  portieres  and 
getting  ready  to  walk  through  them,  but  never 
doing  so. 

When  this  Mr.  Betts  came  down  from  the 
North  and  bought  the  gasworks  it  was  the 
general  expectation  that  he  would  extensively 
overhaul  and  enlarge  the  plant;  but  he  did 
nothing  of  the  sort,  seeming,  on  the  contrary, 
to  be  amply  satisfied  with  things  as  they  were. 
He  installed  himself  as  general  manager,  re 
tained  Cash  Poindexter  as  his  assistant,  and 
kept  right  on  with  the  two  Kettler  boys  as  his 
engineers  and  the  two  darkies,  Ed  Greer  and 
Lark  Tilghman,  as  his  firemen.  He  was  a  man 
who  violated  all  traditions  and  ideals  concern 
ing  how  Northern  capitalists  ought  to  look. 
He  neither  wore  a  white  pique  vest  nor  smoked 
long,  black  cigars;  in  fact,  he  didn't  smoke 
at  all.  He  was  a  short,  square,  iron-gray 
person,  with  a  sort  of  dead  and  fossilized  eye. 
He  looked  as  though  he  might  have  been  rough- 
hewn  originally  from  one  of  those  soapstone 

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clays  which  grow  the  harder  with  age  and 
exposure.  He  had  a  hard,  exact  way  of  talk 
ing,  and  he  wore  a  hard,  exact  suit  of  clothes 
which  varied  not,  weekdays  or  Sundays,  in 
texture  or  in  cut. 

In  short,  Mr.  Henry  Betts,  the  pioneer 
Eastern  investor  in  those  parts,  was  a  profound 
disappointment  as  to  personality  and  per 
formances.  Not  so  with  J.  Hayden  Witherbee. 
From  his  Persian-lamb  lapels  to  his  patent- 
leather  tips  he  was  the  physical  embodiment 
of  all  the  town  had  learned  to  expect  of  a 
visiting  Wall  Street  capitalist.  And  he  liked 
the  town  —  that  was  plain.  He  spoke  en 
thusiastically  of  the  enterprise  which  animated 
it;  he  referred  frequently  and  with  praise  to 
the  awakening  of  the  New  South,  and  he  was 
even  moved  to  compliment  publicly  the  cook 
ing  at  the  Richland  House.  It  was  felt  that 
a  stranger  and  a  visitor  could  go  no  further. 

Also,  he  moved  fast,  J.  Hayden  Witherbee 
did,  showing  the  snap  and  push  so  characteristic 
of  the  ruling  spirits  of  the  great  moneymarts  of 
the  East.  Before  he  had  been  in  town  a  week 
he  had  opened  negotiations  for  the  purchase 
outright  of  the  new  Light  and  Power  Company, 
explaining  frankly  that  if  he  could  come  to 
terms  he  intended  making  it  a  part  of  his  pro 
jected  interurban  railway.  Would  the  present 
owners  care  to  sell  at  a  fair  valuation?  —  that 
was  what  Mr.  Witherbee  desired  to  know. 

Would  a  drowning  man  grasp  at  a  life-pre- 

[206] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

server?  Would  a  famished  colt  welcome  the 
return  of  its  maternal  parent  at  eventide? 
Would  the  present  owners,  carrying  on  their 
galled  backs  an  unprofitable  burden  which 
local  pride  had  forced  upon  them  —  would 
they  sell?  Here,  as  manna  sent  from  Heaven 
by  way  of  Wall  Street,  as  you  might  say,  was 
a  man  who  would  buy  from  them  a  property 
which  had  never  paid  and  which  might  never 
pay;  and  who,  besides,  meant  to  do  something 
noble  and  big  for  the  town.  Would  they  sell? 
Ask  them  something  hard! 

There  was  a  series  of  conferences  —  if  two 
conferences  can  be  said  to  constitute  a  series  — • 
one  in  Mr.  Witherbee's  room  at  the  hotel, 
where  cigars  of  an  unknown  name  but  an  im 
pressive  bigness  were  passed  round  freely;  and 
one  in  the  office  of  the  president  of  the  Planters' 
National  Bank.  Things  went  well  and  swim 
mingly  from  the  first;  Mr.  J.  Hayden  Witherbee 
had  a  most  clear  and  definite  way  of  putting 
things;  and  yet,  with  all  that,  he  was  the 
embodiment  of  cordiality  and  courtesy.  So 
charmed  was  Doctor  Lake  with  his  manner 
that  he  asked  him,  right  in  the  midst  of  vital 
negotiations,  if  he  were  not  of  Southern  descent; 
and  when  he  confessed  that  his  mother's  people 
had  come  from  Virginia  Doctor  Lake  said  he 
had  felt  it  from  the  first  moment  they  met,  and 
insisted  on  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Witherbee 
again. 

"  Gentlemen,"    said    Mr.    Witherbee  —  this 

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was  said  at  the  first  meeting,  the  one  in  his 
room  —  "as  I  have  already  told  you,  I  need 
this  town  as  a  terminal  for  my  interurban  road 
and  I  need  your  plant.  I  expect,  of  course, 
to  enlarge  it  and  to  modernize  it  right  up  to 
the  minute;  but,  so  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a  very 
good  plant  and  I  want  it.  I  suggest  that  you 
gentlemen,  constituting  the  directors  and  the 
majority  stockholders,  get  together  between 
now  and  tomorrow  —  this  evening,  say  —  and 
put  a  price  on  the  property.  Tomorrow  I  will 
meet  you  again,  here  in  this  hotel  or  at  any 
point  you  may  select;  and  if  the  price  you  fix 
seems  fair,  and  the  papers  prove  satisfactory 
to  my  lawyers,  I  know  of  no  reason  why  we 
cannot  make  a  trade.  Gentlemen,  good  day. 
Take  another  cigar  all  round  before  leaving." 
They  went  apart  and  confabbed  industri 
ously  —  old  Major  Covington,  who  was  the 
president  of  the  Light  and  Power  Company, 
Doctor  Lake  and  Captain  Woodward,  the 
two  heaviest  stockholders,  Colonel  Courtney 
Cope,  the  attorney  for  the  company  and  like 
wise  a  director,  and  sundry  others.  Between 
themselves,  being  meanwhile  filled  with  sweet 
and  soothing  thoughts,  they  named  a  price 
that  would  let  them  out  whole,  with  a  margin 
of  interest  on  the  original  venture,  and  yet 
one  which,  everything  considered  —  the  grow 
ing  population,  the  new  suburbs  and  all  that  — 
was  a  decent  enough  price.  They  expected  to 
be  hammered  down  a  few  thousand  and  were 

[208] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

prepared  to  concede  something;  but  it  would 
seem  that  the  big  men  of  the  East  did  not  do 
business  in  that  huckstering,  cheese-trimming 
way.  Time  to  them  was  evidently  worth  more 
than  the  money  to  be  got  by  long  chaffering 
over  a  proposition. 

"Gentlemen,"  J.  Hayden  Witherbee  had 
said  right  off,  "the  figures  seem  reasonable 
and  moderate.  I  think  I  will  buy  from  you." 

A  warm  glow  visibly  lit  up  the  faces  of  those 
who  sat  with  him.  It  was  as  though  J.  Hayden 
Witherbee  was  an  open  fireplace  and  threw  off 
a  pleasant  heat. 

"I  will  take  over  these  properties,"  repeated 
Mr.  J.  Hayden  Witherbee;  "but  on  one  con 
dition  —  I  also  want  the  ownership  of  your 
local  gasworks." 

There  was  a  little  pause  and  the  glow  died 
down  a  trifle  —  just  the  merest  trifle.  "But, 
sir,  we  do  not  own  those  gasworks,"  said  the 
stately  Major  Covington. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Mr.  Witherbee;  "but 
the  point  is  —  can't  you  acquire  them?" 

"I  suppose  we  might,"  said  the  major;  "but, 
Mr.  Witherbee,  that  gasworks  concern  is  worn 
out  —  our  electric-light  plant  has  nearly  put  it 
out  of  business." 

"I  understand  all  that  too,"  Mr.  Witherbee 
went  on,  "perfectly  well.  Gentlemen,  where  I 
come  from  we  act  quickly,  but  we  look  before 
we  leap.  During  the  past  twenty-four  hours 
I  have  examined  into  the  franchise  of  those 

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gasworks.  I  find  that  nearly  forty  years  ago 
your  common  council  issued  to  the  original 
promoters  and  owners  of  the  gas  company  a 
ninety-year  charter,  giving  the  use  of  any 
and  all  of  your  streets,  not  only  for  the  laying 
of  gas  mains,  but  for  practically  all  other  pur 
poses.  It  was  an  unwise  thing  to  do,  but  it 
was  done  and  it  stands  so  today.  Gentlemen, 
this  is  a  growing  community  in  the  midst  of  a 
rich  country.  I  violate  no  confidence  in  telling 
you  that  capital  is  looking  this  way.  I  am 
merely  the  forerunner  —  the  first  in  the  field. 
The  Gatins  crowd,  in  Chicago,  has  its  eyes 
upon  this  territory,  as  I  have  reason  to 
know.  You  are,  of  course,  acquainted  with  the 
Gatins  crowd?"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  putting 
a  question. 

Major  Covington,  who  made  a  point  of 
never  admitting  that  he  didn't  know  everything, 
nodded  gravely  and  murmured  the  name  over 
to  himself  as  though  he  were  trying  to  remember 
Gatins'  initials.  The  others  sat  silent,  im 
pressed  more  than  ever  with  the  wisdom  of  this 
stranger  who  had  so  many  pertinent  facts  at 
his  finger  tips. 

"Suppose  now,"  went  on  Mr.  Witherbee  — 
"suppose,  now,  that  Ike  Gatins  and  his  crowd 
should  come  down  here  and  find  out  what  I 
have  found  out  and  should  buy  out  that  gas 
company.  Why,  gentlemen,  under  the  terms 
of  that  old  franchise,  those  people  could  actually 
lay  tracks  right  through  the  streets  of  this  little 

[210] 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

city  of  yours.  They  could  parallel  our  lines  — 
they  could  give  us  active  opposition  right  here 
on  the  home  ground.  It  might  mean  a  hard 
fight.  Therefore  I  need  those  gasworks.  I 
may  shut  them  up  or  I  may  run  them  —  but 
I  need  them  in  my  business. 

"I  have  inquired  into  the  ownership  of  this 
concern,"  continued  Mr.  Witherbee  before  any 
one  could  interrupt  him,  "and  I  find  it  was  re 
cently  purchased  outright  by  a  gentleman  from 
somewhere  up  my  way  named  —  named  —  " 

He  snapped  his  fingers  impatiently. 

"Named  Betts,"  supplied  Doctor  Lake  — 
"named  Henry  Betts." 

"Quite  so,"  Mr.  Witherbee  assented. 
"Thank  you,  doctor  —  Betts  is  the  name. 
Now  the  fact  that  the  whole  property  is  vested 
in  one  man  simplifies  the  matter  —  doesn't 
it?  Of  course  I  would  not  care  to  go  to  this 
Mr.  Betts  in  person.  You  understand  that." 

If  they  didn't  understand  they  let  on  they 
did,  merely  nodding  and  waiting  for  more 
light  to  be  let  in. 

"Once  let  it  be  known  that  I  was  personally 
interested  in  a  consolidation  of  your  lighting 
plants,  and  this  Mr.  Betts,  if  I  know  anything 
about  human  nature,  would  advance  his  valua 
tion  far  beyond  its  proper  figure.  Therefore 
I  cannot  afford  to  be  known  in  the  matter. 
You  see  that?" 

They  agreed  that  they  saw. 

"  So  I  would  suggest  that  all  of  you  —  or 

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some  of  you  —  go  and  call  upon  Mr.  Betts 
and  endeavor  to  buy  the  gasworks  from  him 
outright.  If  you  can  get  the  plant  for  any 
thing  like  its  real  value  you  may  include  the 
amount  in  the  terms  of  the  proposition  you 
have  today  made  me  and  I  will  take  over  all 
of  the  properties  together. 

"However,  remember  this,  gentlemen  —  there 
is  need  of  haste.  Within  forty-eight  hours  I 
should  be  in  Memphis,  where  I  am  to  confer 
with  certain  of  my  associates  —  Eastern  men 
like  myself,  but  who,  unlike  me,  are  keeping 
under  cover  —  to  confer  with  them  concerning 
our  rights-of-way  through  the  cotton-raising 
country.  I  repeat,  then,  that  there  is  pressing 
need  for  immediate  action.  May  I  offer  you 
gentlemen  fresh  cigars?"  and  he  reached  for  a 
well-stuffed,  silver-mounted  case  of  dull  leather. 

But  they  were  already  going  —  going  in  a 
body  to  see  Mr.  Henry  Betts,  late  of  somewhere 
up  North.  Mr.  J.  Hayden  Witherbee's  haste, 
great  though  it  might  be,  could  be  no  greater 
than  theirs.  On  their  way  down  Market 
Street  to  the  gashouse  it  was  decided  that,  unless 
the  exigencies  of  the  situation  demanded  a 
chorus  of  argument,  Major  Covington  should 
do  the  talking.  Indeed  it  was  Major  Coving- 
ton  who  suggested  this.  Talking,  with  financial 
subjects  at  the  back  of  the  talk,  was  one  of  the 
things  at  which  the  major  fancied  himself  a 
success. 

Mr.  Betts  sat  in  the  clutter  of  his  small, 

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STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

untidy  office  like  an  elderly  and  reserved  gray 
rat  in  a  paper  nest  behind  a  wainscoting. 
His  feet,  in  square-toed  congress  gaiters,  rested 
on  the  fender  of  a  stove  that  was  almost  small 
enough  to  be  an  inkstand,  and  his  shoulders 
were  jammed  back  against  a  window-ledge. 
By  merely  turning  his  head  he  commanded  a 
view  of  his  entire  property,  with  the  engine 
house  in  the  near  distance  and  the  round  tun- 
like  belly  of  the  gas  tank  rising  just  beyond  it. 
He  was  alone. 

As  it  happened,  he  knew  all  of  his  callers, 
having  met  them  in  the  way  of  business  — 
which  was  the  only  way  he  ever  met  anybody. 
To  each  man  entering  he  vouchsafed  the  same 
greeting — namely,  "How-do?"  —  spoken  with 
out  emotion  and  mechanically. 

Major  Covington  had  intended  to  shake 
hands  with  Mr.  Betts,  but  something  about 
Mr.  Betts'  manner  made  him  change  his  mind. 
He  cleared  his  throat  impressively;  the  major 
did  nearly  everything  impressively. 

"A  fine  day,  sir,"  said  the  major. 

Mr.  Betts  turned  his  head  slightly  to  the 
left  and  peered  out  through  a  smudged  pane 
as  if  seeking  visual  confirmation  of  the  state 
ment  before  committing  himself.  A  look  seemed 
to  satisfy  him. 

"It  is,"  he  agreed,  and  waited,  boring  his 
company  with  his  geologic  gaze. 

"Ahem!"  sparred  Major  Covington  —  "I 
think  I  will  take  a  chair." 

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As  Mr.  Belts  said  nothing  to  this,  either  one 
way  or  the  other,  the  major  took  a  chair,  it 
being  the  only  chair  in  sight,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  chair  in  which  Mr.  Betts  was  slumped 
down  and  from  which  Mr.  Betts  had  not  stirred. 
Doctor  Lake  perched  himself  upon  a  book 
keeper's  tall  stool  that  wabbled  precariously. 
Three  other  anxious  local  capitalists  stood 
where  they  could  find  room,  which  was  on  the 
far  side  of  the  stove. 

"Very  seasonable  weather  indeed,"  ventured 
the  old  major,  still  fencing  for  his  start. 

"So  you  remarked  before,  I  believe,"  said 
Mr.  Betts  dryly.  "Did  you  wish  to  see  me  on 
business?" 

Inwardly  the  major  was  remarking  to  him 
self  how  astonishing  it  was  that  one  section  of 
the  country  —  to  wit,  the  North  —  could  pro 
duce  men  of  such  widely  differing  types  as  this 
man  and  the  man  whose  delightful  presence  they 
had  just  quitted;  could  produce  a  gentleman  like 
J.  Hayden  Witherbee,  with  whom  it  was  a  posi 
tive  pleasure  to  discuss  affairs  of  moment,  and  a 
dour,  sour,  flinty  person  like  this  Betts,  who  was 
lacking  absolutely  in  the  smaller  refinements 
that  should  govern  intercourse  between  gentle 
men  —  and  wasn't  willing  to  learn  them  either. 
Outwardly  the  major,  visibly  flustered,  was  say 
ing:  "Yes  —  in  a  measure.  Yes,  we  came  on 
a  matter  of  business."  He  pulled  up  somewhat 
lamely.  Really  the  man's  attitude  was  almost 
forbidding.  It  verged  on  the  sinister. 

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STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

"What  was  the  business?"  pressed  Mr. 
Betts  in  a  colorless  and  entirely  disinterested 
tone  of  voice. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Major  Covington  stiffly,  and 
his  rising  temper  and  his  sense  of  discretion  were 
now  wrestling  together  inside  of  him — "  well,  sir, 
to  be  brief  and  to  put  it  in  as  few  words  as  pos 
sible,  which  from  your  manner  and  conversation 
I  take  to  be  your  desire,  I  —  we  —  my  associ 
ates  here  and  myself  —  have  called  in  to  say 
that  we  are  interested  naturally  in  the  develop 
ment  of  our  little  city  and  its  resources  and  its  in 
dustries;  and  with  these  objects  in  view  we  have 
felt,  and,  in  fact,  we  have  agreed  among  our 
selves,  that  we  would  like  to  enter  into  negotia 
tions  with  you,  if  possible,  touching,  so  to  speak, 
on  the  transfer  to  us  of  the  property  which  you 
control  here.  Or,  in  other  words,  we  — " 

"Do  you  mean  you  want  to  buy  these  gas 
works?" 

"Yes,"  confessed  the  major;  "that  —  that 
is  it.  We  would  like  to  buy  these  gasworks." 

"Immediately!"  blurted  out  Doctor  Lake, 
teetering  on  his  high  perch.  The  major  shot 
a  chiding  glance  at  his  compatriot.  Mr.  Betts 
looked  over  the  top  of  the  stove  at  the  major, 
and  then  beyond  him  at  the  doctor,  and  then 
beyond  the  doctor  at  the  others.  Then  he 
looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"They  are  not  for  sale,"  he  stated;  and  his 
voice  indicated  that  he  regarded  the  subject 
as  being  totally  exhausted. 

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"Yes,  quite  so;  I  see,"  said  Major  Covington 
suavely;  "but  if  we  could  agree  on  a  price 
now  —  a  price  that  would  be  satisfactory  to 
you  —  and  to  us  - 

"We  couldn't  agree  on  a  price,"  said  Mr. 
Betts,  apparently  studying  something  in  con 
nection  with  the  bulging  side  of  the  gas  tank 
without,  "because  there  isn't  any  price  to 
agree  on.  I  bought  these  gasworks  and  I  own 
them,  and  I  am  satisfied  to  go  on  owning  them. 
Therefore  they  are  not  for  sale.  Did  you  have 
any  other  business  with  me?" 

There  was  something  almost  insulting  in  the 
way  this  man  rolled  his  r's  when  he  said  "there 
fore."  Checking  an  inclination  to  speak  on 
the  part  of  Doctor  Lake  the  major  controlled 
himself  with  an  effort  and  said : 

"Nevertheless,  we  would  appreciate  it  very 
much,  sir,  if  you  could  and  would  go  so  far 
as  to  put  a  figure  —  any  reasonable  figure  — 
on  this  property.  We  would  like  very  much 
to  get  an  expression  from  you  —  a  suggestion  — 
or  —  or  —  something  of  that  general  nature," 
he  tailed  off. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Betts,  biting  the  words 
off  short  and  square,  "very  well.  I  will. 
What  you  want  to  know  is  my  price  for  these 
gasworks?" 

"Exactly  so,"  said  the  major,  brightening 
up. 

"Very  well,"  repeated  Mr.  Betts.  "Sixty 
thousand." 

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STRATAGEM     AND     SPOILS 

Doctor  Lake  gave  such  a  violent  start  that 
he  lost  his  hat  out  of  his  lap.  Captain  Wood 
ward's  jaw  dropped. 

"Sixty  thousand!"  echoed  Major  Covington 
blankly.  "Sixty  thousand  what?" 

"Sixty  thousand  dollars,"  said  Mr.  Betts, 
"in  cash." 

Major  Covington  fairly  sputtered  surprise 
and  chagrin. 

"But,  Mr.  Betts,  sir,"  he  protested,  "I 
happen  to  know  that  less  than  four  months  ago 
you  paid  only  about  twenty-seven  thousand 
dollars  for  this  entire  business!" 

"Twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred,  to  be 
exact,"  corrected  Mr.  Betts. 

"And  since  that  time  you  have  not  added  a 
dollar's  worth  of  improvement  to  it,"  added 
the  dismayed  major. 

"Not  one  cent  —  let  alone  a  dollar,"  assented 
this  most  remarkable  man. 

"But  surely  you  don't  expect  us  to  pay  such 
a  price  as  that?"  pleaded  the  major. 

"I  do  not,"  said  Mr.  Betts. 

"We  couldn't  think  of  paying  such  a  price 
as  that." 

"I  don't  expect  you  to,"  said  Mr.  Betts. 
"I  didn't  ask  you  to.  As  I  said  before,  these 
gasworks  are  not  for  sale.  They  suit  me  just 
as  they  are.  They  are  not  on  the  market; 
but  you  insist  that  I  shall  name  a  price  and  I 
name  it  —  sixty  thousand  in  cash.  Take  it  or 
leave  it." 

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Having  concluded  this,  for  him,  unusually 
long  speech,  Mr.  Betts  brought  his  fingertips 
together  with  great  mathematical  exactness, 
matching  each  finger  and  each  thumb  against 
its  fellow  as  though  they  were  all  parts  of  a 
sum  in  addition  that  he  was  doing.  With  his 
fingers  added  up  to  his  satisfaction  and  the 
total  found  correct,  he  again  turned  his  gaze 
out  of  the  smudgy  window.  This  time  it 
was  something  on  the  extreme  top  of  the  gas 
tank  which  seemed  to  engage  his  attention. 
Cassius  Poindexter  opened  the  street  door  and 
started  in;  but  at  the  sight  of  so  much  com 
pany  he  checked  himself  on  the  threshold, 
combed  back  his  side  whiskers  nervously, 
bowed  dumbly  and  withdrew,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  him. 

"If  we  could  only  reach  some  reasonable 
basis  of  figuring  now,"  said  the  major,  address 
ing  Mr.  Betts'  left  ear  and  the  back  of  Mr. 
Betts'  head  —  "say,  forty  thousand,  now?" 
Mr.  Betts  squinted  his  Stone  Age  eyes  the 
better  to  see  out  of  the  dirty  window. 

"Or  even  forty-five?"  supplemented  Doctor 
Lake,  unable  to  hold  in  any  longer.  "Why, 
damn  it,  sir,  forty-five  thousand  is  a  fabulous 
price  to  pay  for  this  junkpile." 

"Sixty  thousand  —  in  cash!"  The  ultima 
tum  seemed  to  issue  from  the  rear  of  Mr. 
Betts'  collar. 

Major  Covington  glanced  about  him,  taking 
toll  of  the  expressions  of  his  associates.  On 

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STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

their  faces  sorrowful  capitulation  was  replacing 
chagrin.  He  nodded  toward  them  and  together 
they  nodded  back  sadly. 

"How  much  did  you  say  you  wanted  down?" 
gulped  the  major  weakly. 

"All  down,"  announced  Mr.  Betts  in  a  tone 
of  finality;  "all  in  cash.  Those  are  my  terms." 

"But  it  isn't  regular! "  babbled  Colonel  Cope. 

"It  isn't  regular  for  a  man  to  sell  something 
he  doesn't  want  to  sell  either,"  gulped  Mr. 
Betts.  "I  bought  for  cash  and  I  sell  for  cash. 
I  never  do  business  any  other  way." 

"How  much  time  will  you  give  us?"  asked 
the  major.  The  surrender  was  complete  and 
unconditional. 

"Until  this  time  tomorrow,"  said  Mr.  Betts; 
"then  the  deal  is  off."  Doctor  Lake  slid  off 
his  stool,  or  else  he  fell  off.  At  any  rate,  he 
descended  from  it  hurriedly.  His  face  was 
very  red. 

"Well,  of  all  the-  '  he  began;  but  the 
major  and  the  colonel  had  him  by  the  arms  and 
were  dragging  him  outside.  When  they  were 
gone  —  all  of  them  —  Mr.  Betts  indulged  him 
self  in  the  luxury  of  a  still,  small  smile  —  a 
smile  that  curled  his  lips  back  just  a  trifle  and 
died  of  frostbite  before  it  reached  his  fossilized 
eyes. 

"Gentlemen,"  Mr.  Witherbee  was  saying  in 
his  room  at  the  Richland  House  ten  minutes 
later,  "the  man  has  you  at  his  mercy  and 
apparently  he  knows  it.  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 

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prised  if  he  had  not  already  been  in  communi 
cation  with  the  Gatins  crowd.  His  attitude 
is  suspicious.  As  I  view  it,  it  is  most  certainly 
suspicious.  Gentlemen,  I  would  advise  you 
to  close  with  him.  He  is  asking  a  figure  far  in 
excess  of  the  real  value  of  the  works  —  but 
what  can  you  do?" 

"And  will  you  take  the  gasworks  at  sixty 
thousand?"  inquired  Major  Covington  hope- 
fully. 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Witherbee,  and 
his  smile  was  sympathetic  and  all-embracing, 
"that,  I  think,  is  asking  too  much;  but,  in  view 
of  the  circumstances,  I  will  do  this  —  I  will 
take  them  at"  —  he  paused  to  consider  —  "I 
will  take  them,  gentlemen,  at  fifty  thousand. 
In  time  I  think  I  can  make  them  worth  that 
much  to  me;  but  fifty  thousand  is  as  far  as  I 
can  go  —  positively.  You  stand  to  lose  ten 
thousand  on  your  deal  for  the  gasworks,  but 
I  presume  you  will  make  that  back  and  more 
on  your  sale  to  me  of  the  light  and  power  plant. 
Can't  I  offer  you  fresh  cigars,  gentlemen?" 

If  for  any  reason  a  run  had  started  on  any 
one  of  the  three  local  banks  the  next  day  there 
would  have  been  the  devil  and  all  to  pay, 
because  there  was  mighty  little  ready  money 
in  any  one  of  them.  Then*  vaults  had  been 
scraped  clean  of  currency;  and  that  currency, 
in  a  compact  bundle,  was  rapidly  traveling 
eastward  in  the  company  of  a  smallish  iron- 
gray  man  answering  to  the  name  of  Betts.  At 

[220] 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

about  the  same  moment  Mr.  Witherbee,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  darky  porter  of  the  Rich- 
land  House,  was  packing  his  wardrobe  into  an 
ornate  traveling  kit.  As  he  packed  he  explained 
to  Doctor  Lake  and  Major  Covington: 

"I  am  called  to  Memphis  twenty -four  hours 
sooner  than  I  had  expected.  Tomorrow  we 
close  a  deal  there  involving,  I  should  say,  half 
a  million  dollars.  Let  us  see  —  this  is  Wednes 
day  —  isn't  it?  I  will  return  here  on  Friday 
morning.  Meanwhile  you  may  have  the  papers 
drawn  by  your  attorney  and  ready  for  sub 
mission  to  my  lawyer,  Mr.  Sharkey,  who  should 
arrive  tomorrow  from  Cincinnati.  If  he  finds 
them  all  shipshape,  as  I  have  every  reason  to 
expect  he  will  find  them,  then,  on  Friday  morn 
ing,  gentlemen,  we  will  sign  up  and  I  will  pay 
the  binder,  amounting  to  —  how  much?  — 
ninety  thousand,  I  believe,  was  the  figure  we 
agreed  upon.  Quite  so.  Gentlemen,  you  will 
find  a  box  of  my  favorite  cigars  on  that  bureau 
yonder.  Help  yourselves." 

No  lawyer  named  Sharkey  arrived  from  Cin 
cinnati  on  Thursday;  no  J.  Hay  den  Witherbee 
returned  from  Memphis  on  Friday  —  nor  was 
there  word  from  him  by  wire  or  mail.  The 
papers,  drawn  in  Colonel  Cope's  best  legal 
style,  all  fringed  and  trimmed  with  whereases 
and  wherefores,  waited  —  and  waited.  Tele 
grams  which  Major  Covington  sent  to  Mem 
phis  remained  unanswered;  in  fact,  undelivered. 
Major  Covington  suddenly  developed  a  cold 

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and  sinking  sensation  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 
In  his  associates  he  discerned  signs  of  the  same 
chilling  manifestation.  It  seemed  to  occur  to 
all  of  them  at  once  that  nobody  had  asked 
J.  Hayden  Witherbee  for  his  credentials  or  had 
inquired  into  his  antecedents.  Glamoured  by 
the  grandeur  of  his  person,  they  had  gone  along 
with  him  —  had  gone  along  until  now  blindly. 
Saturday,  hour  by  hour,  darkling  suspicion 
grew  in  each  mind  and  reared  itself  like  a  totem 
pole  adorned  with  snake-headed,  hawk-clawed 
figments  of  dread.  And  on  Saturday,  for  the 
first  time  in  a  solid  week  the  Daily  Evening 
News  carried  no  front-page  account  of  the 
latest  doings  and  sayings  of  J.  Hayden  Wither 
bee. 

Upon  a  distracted  conference,  taking  place 
Saturday  night  in  the  directors'  room  of  the 
bank,  intruded  the  sad  figure  of  Cassius  Pom- 
dexter,  combing  back  his  side  whiskers  like 
a  man  eternally  on  the  point  of  parting  a  pair 
of  lace  curtains  and  never  coming  through 
them. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  some 
thing  to  say  that  I  think  you  gentlemen  oughter 
hear.  If  you  thought  those  two  —  Wither- 
bones,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  and  my  late 
employer,  Henry  Betts  —  if  you  all  thought 
those  two  were  strangers  to  one  another  you 
were  mistaken  —  that's  all.  Two  weeks  ago 
I  saw  a  letter  on  Betts'  desk  signed  by  this  man 
Witherbee  —  if  that's  his  name.  And  Tuesday 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

when  Betts  told  me  he  was  goin'  to  sell  out,  I 
remembered  it." 

The  major  was  the  first  to  get  his  voice  back; 
and  it  was  shaky  with  rage  and  —  other  emo 
tions. 

"You  —  you  saw  us  all  there  Tuesday  morn 
ing,"  he  shouted, " didn't  you?  And  when  Betts 
told  you  he  was  going  to  sell  and  you  remem 
bered  about  Witherbee  why  didn't  you  have 
sense  enough  to  put  two  and  two  together?" 

"I  did  have  sense  enough  to  put  two  and 
two  together,"  answered  Cassius  Poindexter 
in  hurt  tones.  "That's  exactly  what  I  did." 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of  Heaven  didn't 
you  come  to  us  —  to  me  —  and  tell  us?" 
demanded  the  major. 

"Well,  sirs,"  said  the  intruder,  "I  was  figurin* 
on  doin'  that  very  thing,  but  it  sort  of  slipped 
out  of  my  mind.  You  see,  I've  been  thinkin* 
right  stiddy  lately  about  an  invention  that 
I'm  workin'  on  at  odd  times  —  I'm  perfectin* 
a  non-refillable  bottle,"  he  explained  —  "and 
somehow  or  other  this  here  other  matter  plum* 
escaped  me." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  inventor.  Stunned 
into  silence,  they  sat  mute  for  a  long,  ghastly 
half  minute.  Doctor  Lake  was  the  first  to 
speak: 

"If  I  could  afford  it,"  he  said  softly  —  "if  at 
present  I  could  afford  it  I'd  put  a  dynamite 
bomb  under  that  gashouse  and  blow  it  up! 
And  I'd  do  it  anyhow,"  he  went  on,  warming 

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to  his  theme,  "if  I  was  only  right  certain  of 
blowing  up  that  idiot  and  his  non-refillable 
bottle  along  with  it!" 

Malley,  of  the  Sun,  was  doing  the  hotel  run 
this  night.  He  came  up  to  the  room  clerk's 
wicket  at  the  desk  of  the  Royal. 

"Say,  Mac,"  he  hailed,  "what's  the  pros 
pect?  So  far,  all  I've  got  is  one  rubber  mag 
nate  from  South  America  —  a  haughty  hidalgo 
with  an  Irish  name  and  a  New  England  accent, 
who  was  willing  to  slip  me  a  half -column  inter 
view  providing  I'd  run  in  the  name  of  his 
company  eight  or  nine  times  —  him,  and  an 
Oklahoma  Congressman,  with  the  makings  of 
a  bun,  and  one  of  Sandusky,  Ohio's  well- 
known  and  popular  merchant  princes,  with  a 
line  of  talk  touching  on  the  business  revival  in 
the  Middle  West.  If  that's  not  slim  pickings 
I  don't  want  a  cent !  Say,  help  an  honest  work 
ing  lad  out  —  can't  you?" 

This  appeal  moved  the  room  clerk. 

"Let's  see  now,"  he  said,  and  ran  a  highly 
polished  fingernail  down  a  long  column  of  names. 
Halfway  down  the  finger  halted. 

"Here's  copy  for  you,  maybe,"  he  said. 
"The  name  is  Priest  —  William  Pitman  Priest 
is  the  way  he  wrote  it.  He  got  in  here  this 
morning,  an  old-time  Southerner;  and  already 
he's  got  every  coon  bellhop  round  the  place 
fighting  for  a  chance  to  wait  on  him.  He's 
the  real  thing  all  right,  I  guess  —  looks  it  and 

[224] 


STRATAGEM     AND     SPOILS 

talks  it  too.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  have 
some  fun  with  him." 

"Where's  he  registered  from?"  asked  Malley 
hopefully. 

"From  Kentucky  —  that's  all;  just  Ken 
tucky,  with  no  town  given,"  said  Mac,  grin 
ning.  "There 're  still  a  few  of  those  old 
Southerners  left  that'll  register  from  a  whole 
state  at  large.  Why,  there  he  goes  now!" 
said  the  room  clerk,  and  he  pointed. 

Across  the  lobby,  making  slow  headway 
against  weaving  tides  of  darting,  hurrying 
figures,  was  moving  a  stoutish  and  elderly 
form  clad  in  a  fashion  that  made  it  look  doubly 
and  trebly  strange  among  those  marble  and 
onyx  precincts.  A  soft  black  hat  of  undoubted 
age  and  much  shapelessness  was  jammed  down 
upon  the  head,  and  from  beneath  its  wide  brim 
at  the  rear  escaped  wisps  of  thin  white  hair 
that  curled  over  the  upturned  coat  collar.  The 
face  the  hat  shaded  was  round  and  pink,  chubby 
almost,  and  ended  in  a  white  chin  beard  which, 
as  Malley  subsequently  said  in  his  story, 
flowed  down  its  owner's  chest  like  a  point-lace 
jabot.  There  was  an  ancient  caped  overcoat 
of  a  pattern  that  had  been  fashionable  perhaps 
twenty  years  ago  and  would  be  fashionable 
again,  no  doubt,  twenty  years  hence;  there 
were  gray  trousers  that  had  never  been  pressed 
apparently;  and,  to  finish  off  with,  there  was 
a  pair  of  box-toed,  high-heeled  boots  of  a  kind 
now  seen  mostly  in  faded  full-length  photo- 

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graphs  of  gentlemen  taken  in  the  late  seventies 
—  boots  with  wrinkled  tops  that  showed  for 
four  inches  or  more  and  shined  clear  up  to  the 
trouser-line  with  some  sort  of  blacking  that 
put  a  dull  bluish  iridescent  blush  upon  the 
leather,  almost  like  the  colors  on  a  dove's  breast 
feathers. 

"Thanks  for  the  tip,  Mac,"  said  Malley, 
and  he  made  off  after  the  old  man,  who  by 
now  had  turned  and  was  maneuvering  down 
the  corridor  toward  where  a  revolving  door 
turned  unceasingly,  like  a  wheel  in  a  squirrel's 
cage.  "Oh,  colonel!"  called  out  Malley  on  a 
venture,  jibing  through  the  human  currents 
and  trying  to  overtake  the  stout,  broad  figure 
ahead  of  him.  An  exceedingly  young,  exceed 
ingly  important  person,  who  looked  as  though 
he  might  be  prominent  in  the  national  guard 
or  on  some  governor's  staff,  half  rose  from  a 
leather  lounge  and  glanced  about  inquiringly, 
but  the  old  man  in  the  cape  and  boots  kept  on. 

"Major!"  tried  Malley  vainly.  "Major! 
Just  a  minute,  please."  And  then,  "Judge! 
Oh,  judge!"  he  called  as  a  last  resort,  and 
at  that  his  quarry  swung  about  on  his  heels 
and  stopped,  eying  him  with  whimsical,  mild 
blue  eyes  under  wrinkly  lids. 

"Son,"  he  said  in  a  high,  whiny  voice  which 
instantly  appealed  to  Malley's  sense  of  the 
picturesque,  "was  it  me  that  you've  been 
yellin'  at?" 

Malley  answered,  telling  his  name  and  his 

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STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

business.  A  moment  later  he  was  surprised 
to  find  himself  shaking  hands  warmly  with  the 
older  man. 

"Malley,  did  you  say?"  the  judge  was  in 
quiring  almost  eagerly.  "Well,  now,  son,  I'm 
glad  to  meet  up  with  you.  Malley  is  a  fairly 
familiar  name  and  a  highly  honored  one  down  in 
our  part  of  the  country.  There  was  a  captain 
in  Forrest's  command  of  your  name  —  Captain 
Malley  —  a  mighty  gallant  soldier  and  a  splen 
did  gentleman!  You  put  me  right  sharply  in 
mind  of  him  too  —  seem  to  favor  him  consider 
able  round  the  eyes.  Are  you  closely  related 
to  the  Southern  branch  of  the  family,  suh?" 

Malley  caught  himself  wishing  that  he  could 
say  Yes.  The  old  judge  showed  almost  a 
personal  disappointment  when  Malley  con 
fessed  that  none  of  his  kinspeople,  so  far  as 
he  knew,  ever  resided  south  of  Scranton, 
Pennsylvania. 

"No  doubt  a  distant  connection,"  amended 
the  judge,  as  though  consoling  both  himself 
and  Malley;  "the  family  resemblance  is  there 
shorely."  He  laid  a  pudgy  pink  hand  on 
Malley 's  arm.  "You'll  pardon  me  for  pre- 
sumin'  on  such  short  acquaintance,  but  down 
where  I  come  from  it  is  customary,  when  two 
gentlemen  meet  up  together  at  about  this 
hour  of  the  evenin' "  —  it  was  then  three 
o'clock  P.M.,  Eastern  time,  as  Malley  noted  — 
*'it  is  customary  for  them  to  take  a  dram.  Will 
you  join  me?" 

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Scenting  his  story,  Malley  fell  into  step  by 
the  old  judge's  side;  but  at  the  door  of  the 
cafe  the  judge  halted  him. 

"Son,"  he  said  confidentially,  "I  like  this 
tavern  mightily  —  all  but  the  grocery  here. 
I  must  admit  that  I  don't  much  care  for  the 
bottled  goods  they're  carryin'  in  stock.  I 
sampled  'em  and  I  didn't  enthuse  over  'em. 
They  are  doubtless  excellent  for  cookin'  pur 
poses,  but  as  beverages  they  sort  of  fall  short. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  up  to  my  chamber  with 
me  and  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  best  judg 
ment  on  a  small  vial  of  liquor  I  brought  with 
me  in  my  valise.  It's  an  eighteen-year-old 
sour  mash,  mellowed  in  the  wood,  and  I  feel 
that  I  can  recommend  it  to  your  no  doubt  dis- 
criminatin'  palate.  Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  company,  suh?" 

As  Malley,  smiling  to  himself,  went  with  the 
judge,  it  struck  him  with  emphasis  that,  for 
a  newly  arrived  transient,  this  old  man  seemed 
to  have  an  astonishingly  wide  acquaintance 
among  the  house  staff  of  the  Hotel  Royal.  A 
page-boy,  all  buttons  and  self-importance,  side 
stepped  them,  smiling  and  ducking  at  the  old 
judge's  nod;  and  the  elevator  attendant,  a 
little,  middle-aged  Irishman,  showed  unalloyed 
pleasure  when  the  judge,  after  blinking  slightly 
and  catching  his  breath  as  the  car  started  up 
ward  with  a  dart  like  a  scared  swallow,  inquired 
whether  he'd  had  any  more  news  yet  of  the 
little  girl  who  was  in  the  hospital.  Plainly 

[228] 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

the  old  judge  and  the  elevator  man  had  already 
been  exchanging  domestic  confidences. 

Into  his  small  room  on  the  seventeenth  floor 
Judge  Priest  ushered  the  reporter  with  the 
air  of  one  dispensing  the  hospitalities  of  a 
private  establishment  to  an  honored  guest, 
made  him  rest  his  hat  and  overcoat  —  "rest" 
was  the  word  the  judge  used  —  and  sit  down 
in  the  easiest  chair  and  make  himself  comfort 
able.  In  response  to  a  conversation  which 
the  judge  had  over  the  telephone  with  some 
young  person  of  the  feminine  gender,  whom  he 
insisted  on  addressing  as  Miss  Exchange,  there 
presently  came  knocking  at  the  door  a  grinning 
negro  boy  bearing  the  cracked  ice,  the  lump 
sugar  and  the  glasses  the  old  judge  had  ordered. 
Him  the  judge  addressed  direct. 

"Look  here,"  asked  the  judge,  looking  up 
from  where  he  was  rummaging  out  a  flat  quart 
flask  from  the  depths  of  an  ancient  and  much- 
seamed  valise,  "ain't  you  the  same  boy  that  I 
was  talkin*  to  this  mornin'?" 

"Yas,  suh,"  said  the  boy,  snickering, 
"Horace." 

"Where  you  came  from  they  didn't  call  you 
Horace,  did  they?"  inquired  the  old  man. 

"Naw,  suh,  that  they  didn't,"  admitted 
Horace,  showing  all  his  teeth  except  the  ex 
tremely  rearmost  ones. 

"What  was  it  they  called  you  —  Smoke  or 
Rabbit?" 

"Ginger,"    owned    up    Horace    delightedly, 

[229] 


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and  vanished,  still  snickering.  Malley  noticed 
that  the  coin  which  the  old  man  had  extracted 
from  the  depths  of  a  deep  pocket  and  tossed 
to  the  darky  was  a  much  smaller  coin  than 
guests  in  a  big  New  York  hotel  customarily 
bestowed  upon  bellboys  for  such  services 
as  this;  yet  Horace  had  accepted  it  with 
every  outward  evidence  of  a  deep  and  abiding 
satisfaction. 

With  infinite  pains  and  a  manner  almost 
reverential,  as  though  he  were  handling  sacred 
vessels,  the  old  judge  compiled  two  dark 
reddish  portions  which  he  denominated  toddies. 
Malley,  sipping  his,  found  it  to  be  a  most  smooth 
and  tasty  mixture.  And  as  he  sipped,  the  old 
judge,  smiling  blandly,  bestowed  himself  in  a 
chair,  which  he  widely  overflowed,  and  balanc 
ing  his  own  drink  on  the  chair  arm  he  crossed 
his  booted  feet  and  was  ready,  he  said,  to  hear 
what  his  young  friend  might  have  to  say. 

As  it  turned  out,  Malley  didn't  have  much 
to  say,  except  to  put  the  questions  by  which  a 
skilled  reporter  leads  on  the  man  he  wants  to 
talk.  And  the  old  judge  was  willing  enough  to 
talk.  It  was  his  first  visit  to  New  York;  he 
had  come  reluctantly,  at  the  behest  of  certain 
friends,  upon  business  of  a  more  or  less  private 
nature;  he  had  taken  a  walk  and  a  ride  already; 
he  had  seen  a  stretch  of  Broadway  and  some 
of  Fifth  Avenue,  and  he  was  full  of  impressions 
and  observations  that  tickled  Malley  clear 
down  to  the  core  of  his  reportorial  soul. 

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STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

So  Malley,  like  the  wise  newspaper  man  he 
was,  threw  away  his  notes  on  the  Brazilian 
rubber  magnate  and  the  merchant  prince  of 
Sandusky;  and  at  dark  he  went  back  to  the 
office  and  wrote  the  story  of  old  Judge  Priest, 
of  Kentucky,  for  a  full  column  and  a  quarter. 
Boss  Clark,  the  night  city  editor,  saw  the  humor 
value  of  the  story  before  he  had  run  through 
the  first  paragraph;  and  he  played  it  up  hard 
on  the  second  page  of  the  Sun,  with  a  regular 
Sun  head  over  it. 

It  was  by  way  of  being  a  dull  time  of  news 
in  New  York.  None  of  the  wealthiest  families 
was  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage;  more 
remarkable  still,  none  of  them  was  divorcing 
or  giving  in  divorce.  No  subway  scandal  was 
emerging  drippingly  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth;  no  aviator  was  descending  abruptly 
from  aloft  with  a  dull  and  lethal  thud.  Malley 's 
story,  with  the  personality  of  the  old  judge  deftly 
set  forward  as  a  foil  for  his  homely  simplicity 
and  small-town  philosophy,  arched  across  the 
purview  of  divers  saddened  city  editors  like  a 
rainbow  spanning  a  leadish  sky.  The  craft, 
in  the  vernacular  of  the  craft,  saw  the  story 
and  went  to  it.  Inside  of  twenty-four  hours 
Judge  Priest,  of  Kentucky,  was  Broadway's 
reigning  favorite,  for  publicity  purposes  anyhow. 
The  free  advertising  he  got  could  not  have  been 
measured  in  dollars  and  cents  if  a  prima  donna 
had  been  getting  it. 

The  judge  kept  open  house  all  that  next  day 

[231] 


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in  his  room  at  the  Hotel  Royal,  receiving  regular 
and  special  members  of  various  city  staffs. 
Margaret  Movine,  the  star  lady  writer  of  the 
Evening  Journal,  had  a  full-page  interview, 
in  which  the  judge,  using  the  Southern  accent 
as  it  is  spoken  in  New  York  exclusively,  was 
made  to  discuss,  among  other  things,  the  suffra 
gette  movement,  women  smoking  in  public, 
Fifth  Avenue,  hobble  skirts,  Morgan's  raid, 
and  the  iniquity  of  putting  sugar  in  corn  bread. 
The  dialect  was  the  talented  Miss  Margaret 
Movine's,  but  the  thoughts  and  the  words 
were  the  judge's,  faithfully  set  forth.  The 
Times  gave  him  a  set  of  jingles  on  its  editorial 
page  and  the  Evening  Mail  followed  up  with 
a  couple  of  humorous  paragraphs;  but  it  was 
the  Sunday  World  that  scored  heaviest. 

McCartwell,  of  the  Sunday,  went  up  and 
secured  from  the  judge  his  own  private  recipe 
for  mint  juleps  —  a  recipe  which  the  judge 
said  had  been  in  his  family  for  three  generations 
—  and  he  thought  possibly  longer,  it  having 
been  brought  over  the  mountains  and  through 
the  Gap  from  Virginia  by  a  grandsire  who  didn't 
bring  much  of  anything  else  of  great  value; 
and  the  World,  printing  this  recipe  and  using 
it  as  a  starter,  conducted  through  its  correspond 
ents  southward  a  telegraphic  symposium  of 
mint-julep  recipes.  Private  John  Allen,  of 
Mississippi;  Colonel  Bill  Sterritt,  of  Texas; 
Marse  Henry  Watterson  and  General  Simon 
Bolivar  Buckner,  of  Kentucky;  Senator  Bob 

[2321 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

Taylor,  of  Tennessee,  and  others,  contributed. 
A  dispute  at  once  arose  in  the  South  concerning 
the  relative  merits  of  mint  bruised  and  mint 
crushed.  An  old  gentleman  in  Virginia  wrote 
an  indignant  letter  to  the  Richmond  Times- 
Dispatch  —  he  said  it  should  be  bruised  only  — 
and  a  personal  misunderstanding  between  two 
veteran  members  of  the  Pendennis  Club,  of 
Louisville,  was  with  difficulty  averted  by  by 
standers.  For  the  American,  Tom  Powers 
drew  a  cartoon  showing  the  old  judge,  with  a 
julep  in  his  hand,  marching  through  the  Pro 
hibition  belt  of  the  South,  accompanied  by  a 
procession  of  jubilant  Joys,  while  hordes  of 
disconcerted  Glooms  fled  ahead  of  them  across 
the  map. 

In  short,  for  the  better  part  of  a  week  Judge 
Priest  was  a  celebrity,  holding  the  limelight  to 
the  virtual  exclusion  of  grand  opera  stars, 
favorite  sons,  white  hopes,  debutantes  and 
contributing  editors  of  the  Outlook  Magazine. 
And  on  the  fourth  day  the  judge,  sitting  in  the 
privacy  of  his  chamber  and  contemplating  his 
sudden  prominence,  had  an  idea  —  and  this 
idea  was  the  answer  to  a  question  he  had 
been  asking  himself  many  times  since  he  left 
home.  He  spent  half  an  hour  and  seventy 
cents  telephoning  to  various  newspaper  offices. 
When  finally  he  hung  up  the  receiver  and 
wriggled  into  his  caped  overcoat  a  benevolent 
smile  illumined  his  broad,  pink  face.  The 
smile  still  lingered  there  as  he  climbed  into  a 


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cab  at  the  curb  and  gave  the  driver  a  certain 
Wall  Street  address,  which  was  the  address  of 
one  J.  Hayden  Witherbee. 

,  J.  Hayden  Witherbee,  composing  the  firm 
of  Witherbee  &  Company,  brokers  and  bankers, 
had  a  cozy  flytrap  or  office  suite  in  one  of  the 
tallest  and  most  ornate  of  the  office  buildings 
or  spider-webs  in  the  downtown  financial 
district.  This  location  was  but  a  natural  one, 
seeing  that  Mr.  J.  Hayden  Witherbee's  interests 
were  widely  scattered  and  diversified,  including 
as  they  did  the  formation  and  construction  — 
on  paper  and  with  paper  —  of  trolley  lines;  the 
floating  of  various  enterprises,  which  floated 
the  more  easily  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  water 
was  their  native  element;  and  the  sale  of  what 
are  known  in  the  West  as  holes  in  the  ground 
and  in  the  East  as  permanent  mining  invest 
ments.  He  rode  to  and  from  business  in  a 
splendid  touring  car  trained  to  stop  auto 
matically  at  at  least  three  cafes  on  the  way  up 
town  of  an  evening;  and  he  had  in  his  employ 
a  competent  staff,  including  a  grayish  gentle 
man  of  a  grim  and  stolid  aspect,  named  Betts. 
Being  a  man  of  affairs,  and  many  of  them, 
Mr.  Witherbee  had  but  small  time  for  general 
newspaper  reading,  save  and  except  only  the 
market  quotations,  the  baseball  scores  in  season 
and  the  notices  of  new  shows  for  tired  business 
men,  though  keeping  a  weather  eye  ever  out  for 
stories  touching  on  the  pernicious  activities  of 

[234] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

the  Federal  Grand  Jury,  with  its  indictments 
and  summonses  and  warrants,  and  of  the 
United  States  Post-Office  Department,  with 
its  nasty  habit  of  issuing  fraud  orders  and 
tying  up  valuable  personal  mail.  Neverthe 
less,  on  a  certain  wintry  afternoon  about  two 
o'clock  or  half-past  two,  when  his  office  boy 
brought  to  him  a  small  card,  engraved  —  no, 
not  engraved;  printed  —  smudgily  printed  with 
the  name  of  William  Pitman  Priest  and  the 
general  address  of  Kentucky,  the  sight  of  the 
card  seemed  to  awaken  within  him  certain 
amusing  stories  which  had  lately  fallen  under 
his  attention  in  the  printed  columns;  and,  since 
he  never  overlooked  any  bets  —  even  the  small 
ones  —  he  told  the  boy  to  show  the  gentleman 
in. 

The  reader,  I  take  it,  being  already  ac 
quainted  with  the  widely  varying  conver 
sational  characteristics  of  Judge  Priest  and 
Mr.  J.  Hay  den  Witherbee,  it  would  be  but 
a  waste  of  space  and  time  for  me  to  under 
take  to  describe  in  detail  the  manner  of  their 
meeting  on  this  occasion.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  the  judge  was  shown  into  Mr.  J.  Hayden 
Witherbee's  private  office;  that  he  introduced 
himself,  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Witherbee,  and 
in  response  to  an  invitation  took  a  seat;  after 
which  he  complimented  Mr.  Witherbee  upon 
the  luxury  and  good  taste  of  his  surroundings, 
and  remarked  that  it  was  seasonable  weather, 
considering  the  Northern  climate  and  the  time 

[235] 


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of  the  year.  And  then,  being  requested  to  state 
the  nature  of  his  business,  he  told  Mr.  Witherbee 
he  had  called  in  the  hope  of  interesting  him  in 
an  industrial  property  located  in  the  South. 
It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Mr.  Witherbee 
pressed  a  large,  dark  cigar  upon  his  visitor. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Witherbee,  "we  have  been 
operating  somewhat  extensively  in  the  South 
of  late,  and  we  are  always  on  the  lookout  for 
desirable  properties  of  almost  any  character. 
Er  —  where  is  this  particular  property  you 
speak  of  located  and  what  is  its  nature?" 

When  Judge  Priest  named  the  town  Mr. 
Witherbee  gave  a  perceptible  start,  and  when 
Judge  Priest  followed  up  this  disclosure  by 
stating  that  the  property  in  question  was  a 
gasworks  plant  which  he,  holding  power  of 
attorney  and  full  authority  to  act,  desired  to 
sell  to  Mr.  Witherbee,  complete  with  equip 
ment,  accounts,  franchise  and  good  will,  Mr. 
Witherbee  showed  a  degree  of  heat  and  excite 
ment  entirely  out  of  keeping  with  the  calmness 
and  deliberation  of  Judge  Priest's  remarks. 
He  asked  Judge  Priest  what  he  —  the  judge  — 
took  him  —  Witherbee  —  for  anyhow?  Judge 
Priest,  still  speaking  slowly  and  choosing  his 
words  with  care,  then  told  him  —  and  that 
only  seemed  to  add  to  Mr.  Witherbee's  state 
of  warmth.  However,  Judge  Priest  drawled 
right  on. 

"Yes,  suh,"  he  continued  placidly,  "ac- 
cordin'  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief, 

"  [ 236  ] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

you  are  in  the  business  of  buy  in'  and  sellin' 
such  things  as  gasworks,  and  so  I've  come  to 
you  to  sell  you  this  here  one.  You  have  personal 
knowledge  of  the  plant,  I  believe,  havin'  been 
on  the  ground  recently." 

"Say,"  demanded  Mr.  Witherbee  with  a 
forced  grin  —  a  grin  that  would  have  reminded 
you  of  a  man  drawing  a  knife  —  "say,  what 
do  you  think  you're  trying  to  slip  over  on  me? 
I  did  go  to  your  measly  little  one-horse  town 
and  I  spent  more  than  a  week  there;  and  I  did 
look  over  your  broken-down  little  old  gashouse, 
and  I  concluded  that  I  didn't  want  it;  and 
then  I  came  away.  That's  the  kind  of  a  man 
I  am  —  when  I'm  through  with  a  thing  I'm 
through  with  it!  Huh!  What  would  I  do 
with  those  gasworks  if  I  bought  'em?" 

"That,  suh,  is  a  most  pertinent  point," 
said  Judge  Priest,  "and  I'm  glad  you  brought 
it  up  early.  In  case,  after  buyin'  this  property, 
you  do  not  seem  to  care  greatly  for  it,  I  am 
empowered  to  buy  it  back  from  you  at  a  suitable 
figure.  For  example,  I  am  willin'  to  sell  it  to 
you  for  sixty  thousand  dollars;  and  then,  pro- 
vidin'  you  should  want  to  sell  it  back  to  me, 
I  stand  prepared  to  take  it  off  your  hands  at 
twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred.  I  name 
those  figures,  suh,  because  those  are  the  figures 
that  were  lately  employed  in  connection  with 
the  proposition." 

"Blackmail  —  huh!"  sneered  Mr.  With 
erbee.  "Cheap  blackmail  and  nothing  else. 

[237] 


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Well,  I  took  you  for  a  doddering  old  pappy 
guy;  but  you're  a  bigger  rube  even  than  I 
thought.  Now  you  get  out  of  here  before  you 
get  thrown  out  —  see?" 

"Now  there  you  go,  son  —  fixin'  to  lose 
your  temper  already,"  counseled  the  old  judge 
reprovingly. 

But  Mr.  Witherbee  had  already  lost  it  — 
completely  lost  it.  He  jumped  up  from  his 
desk  as  though  contemplating  acts  of  violence 
upon  the  limbs  and  body  of  the  broad,  stoutish 
old  man  sitting  in  front  of  him;  but  he  sheered 
off.  Though  old  Judge  Priest's  lips  kept  right 
on  smiling,  his  eyelids  puckered  down  into  a 
disconcerting  little  squint;  and  between  them 
little  menacing  blue  gleams  flickered.  Anyway, 
personal  brawls,  even  in  the  sanctity  of  one's 
office,  were  very  bad  form  and  sometimes  led 
to  that  publicity  which  is  so  distasteful  to  one 
engaged  in  large  private  enterprises.  Mr. 
Witherbee  had  known  the  truth  of  this  when 
his  name  had  been  Watkins  and  when  it  had 
been  the  Bland  Brothers'  Investment  Company, 
Limited;  and  he  knew  it  now  when  he  was 
Witherbee  &  Company.  So,  as  aforesaid,  he 
sheered  off.  Retreating  to  his  desk,  he  felt 
for  a  button.  A  buzzer  whirred  dimly  in  the 
wall  like  a  rattlesnake's  tail.  An  officeboy 
poked  his  head  in  instantly. 

"Herman,"  ordered  Mr.  Witherbee,  trem 
bling  with  his  passion,  "you  go  down  to  the 
superintendent's  office  and  tell  him  to  send 

[238] 


2  S 

0  fe 


s 

X  H 

«    PH 

22 

to  £> 
w  O 


STRATAGEM    AND    SPOILS 

a  special  building  officer  here  to  me  right 
away!" 

The  boy's  head  vanished,  and  Mr.  Wither- 
bee  swung  back  again  on  the  judge,  wagging  a 
threatening  forefinger  at  him. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do?" 
he  asked.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going 
to  do  —  I'm  going  to  have  you  chucked  out 
of  here  bodily  —  that's  what!" 

But  he  couldn't  keep  the  quaver  out  of  the 
threat.  Somehow  he  was  developing  a  growing 
fear  of  this  imperturbable  old  man. 

"Now,  son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  who  hadn't 
moved,  "I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  was  you.  It 
might  not  be  so  healthy  for  you." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  trying  any  of  your 
cheap  Southern  gunplays  round  here,"  warned 
Mr.  Witherbee;  but,  in  spite  of  his  best 
efforts  at  control,  his  voice  rose  quivering  at 
the  suggestion. 

"Bless  your  heart,  son!"  said  the  judge 
soothingly,  "I  wouldn't  think  of  usin'  a  gun 
on  you  any  more'n  I'd  think  of  takin'  a  Win 
chester  rifle  to  kill  one  of  these  here  cock 
roaches!  Son,"  he  said,  rising  now  for  the 
first  time,  "you  come  along  here  with  me  a 
minute  —  I  want  to  show  you  something  you 
ain't  seen  yet." 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it  part 
way.  Witherbee,  wondering  and  apprehensive, 
followed  him  and  looked  over  the  old  judge's 
shoulder  into  the  anteroom. 

[239] 


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For  J.  Hayden  Witherbee,  one  quick  glance 
was  enough.  Four  —  no,  five  —  five  alert- 
looking  young  men,  all  plainly  marked  with 
the  signs  of  a  craft  abhorrent  to  Mr.  Witherbee, 
sat  in  a  row  of  chairs  beyond  a  railing;  and 
beyond  them  was  a  sixth  person,  a  young 
woman  with  a  tiptilted  nose  and  a  pair  of 
inquisitive,  expectant  gray  eyes.  Mr.  With 
erbee  would  have  known  them  anywhere  by 
their  backs  —  jackals  of  the  press,  muckrakers, 
sworn  enemies  to  Mr.  Witherbee  and  all  his 
kith  and  kind! 

It  was  Mr.  Witherbee  who  slammed  the 
door  shut,  drawing  Judge  Priest  back  into  the 
shelter  of  the  closed  room;  and  it  was  Mr. 
Witherbee  who  made  inquiry,  tremulously, 
almost  humbly: 

"What  does  this  mean?  What  are  these 
people  doing  there?  What  game  is  this?" 
He  sputtered  out  the  words,  one  question  over 
lapping  the  next. 

"Son,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "you  seem  flus 
tered.  Ca'm  yourself.  This  is  no  game  as  I 
know  of.  These  are  merely  friends  of  mine  — 
representatives  of  the  daily  press  of  your  city." 

"But  how  did  they  come  to  be  here?" 

"Oh!"  said  the  judge.  "Why,  I  tele 
phoned  'em.  I  telephoned  'em  that  I  was 
comin'  down  here  on  a  matter  of  business, 
and  that  maybe  there  might  be  a  sort  of  an 
item  for  them  if  they'd  come  too.  I've  been 
makin'  what  they  call  copy  for  them,  and  we're 

[240] 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

all  mighty  sociable  and  friendly;  and  so  they 
came  right  along.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  we 
all  arrived  practically  together.  You  see,  if 
I  was  sort  of  shoved  out  of  here  against  my 
will  and  maybe  mussed  up  a  little  those  boys 
and  that  there  young  lady  there  —  her  name 
is  Miss  Margaret  Movine  —  they'd  be  sure  to 
put  pieces  in  their  papers  about  it;  and  if  it 
should  come  out  incidentally  that  the  cause  of 
the  row  was  a  certain  gasworks  transaction, 
in  a  certain  town  down  in  Kentucky,  they'd 
probably  print  that  too.  Why,  those  young 
fellows  would  print  anything  almost  if  I  wanted 
them  to.  You'd  be  surprised! 

"Yes,  suh,  you'd  be  surprised  to  see  how 
much  they'd  print  for  me,"  he  went  on,  tapping 
J.  Hayden  Witherbee  upon  his  agitated  chest 
with  a  blunt  forefinger.  "I'll  bet  you  they'd 
go  into  the  full  details." 

As  Mr.  Witherbee  listened,  Mr.  Witherbee 
perspired  freely.  At  this  very  moment  there 
were  certain  transactions  pending  throughout 
the  country  —  he  had  a  telegram  in  his  desk 
now  from  Betts,  sent  from  a  small  town  in 
Alabama  —  and  newspaper  publicity  of  an 
unpleasant  and  intimate  nature  might  be  fatal 
in  the  extreme.  Mr.  Witherbee  had  a  mind 
trained  to  act  quickly. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  he  said,  mopping  his 
brow  and  wetting  his  lips,  they  being  the  only 
dry  things  about  him.  "  Wait  a  minute,  please. 
If  we  could  settle  this  —  this  matter  —  just 

[241] 


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between  ourselves,  quietly  —  and  peaceably 
-  there  wouldn't  be  anything  to  print  — 
would  there?" 

"As  I  understand  the  ethics  of  your  Eastern 
journalism,  there  wouldn't  be  anything  to 
print,"  said  Judge  Priest.  "The  price  of  them 
gasworks,  accordin'  to  the  latest  quotations, 
was  sixty  thousand  —  but  liable  to  advance 
without  notice." 

"And  what  —  what  did  you  say  you'd  buy 
'em  back  at?" 

"Twenty-six  thousand  five  hundred  was  the 
last  price,"  said  the  judge,  "but  subject  to 
further  shrinkage  almost  any  minute." 

"I'll  trade,"  said  Mr.  Witherbee. 

"Much  obliged  to  you,  son,"  said  Judge 
Priest  gratefully,  and  he  began  fumbling  in  his 
breast  pocket.  "I've  got  the  papers  all  made 
out." 

Mr.  Witherbee  regained  his  desk  and  reached 
for  a  checkbook  just  as  the  officeboy  poked  his 
head  in  again. 

"Special  officer's  comin'  right  away,  sir," 
he  said. 

"Tell  him  to  go  away  and  keep  away," 
snarled  the  flurried  Mr.  Witherbee;  "and 
you  keep  that  door  shut  —  tight !  Shall  I 
make  the  check  out  to  you?"  he  asked  the 
judge. 

"Well,  now,  I  wouldn't  care  to  bother  with 
checks,"  said  the  judge.  "All  the  recent 
transactions  involvin'  this  here  gashouse  prop- 

[242] 


STRATAGEM     AND     SPOILS 

erty  was  by  the  medium  of  the  common  cur 
rency  of  the  country,  and  I  wouldn't  care  to 
undertake  on  my  own  responsibility  to  interfere 
with  a  system  that  has  worked  heretofore  with 
such  satisfaction.  I'll  take  the  difference  in 
cash  —  if  you  don't  mind." 

"But  I  can't  raise  that  much  cash  now," 
whined  Witherbee.  "I  haven't  that  much 
in  my  safe.  I  doubt  if  I  could  get  it  at  my 
bank  on  such  short  notice." 

"I  know  of  a  larger  sum  bein'  gathered 
together  in  a  much  smaller  community  than 
this  —  oncet!"  said  the  judge  remmiscently. 
"I  would  suggest  that  you  try." 

"I'll  try,"  said  Mr.  Witherbee  desperately. 
"I'll  send  out  for  it  —  on  second  thought,  I 
guess  I  can  raise  it." 

"I'll  wait,"  said  the  judge;  and  he  took 
his  seat  again,  but  immediately  got  up  and 
started  for  the  door.  "I'll  ask  the  boys  and 
Miss  Margaret  Movine  to  wait  too,"  he  ex 
plained.  "You  see,  I'm  leavin'  for  my  home 
tomorrow  and  we're  all  goin'  to  have  a  little 
farewell  blowout  together  tonight." 

Upon  Malley,  who  in  confidence  had  heard 
enough  from  the  judge  to  put  two  and  two 
together  and  guess  something  of  the  rest,  there 
was  beginning  to  dawn  a  conviction  that  behind 
Judge  William  Pitman  Priest's  dovelike  sim 
plicity  there  lurked  some  part  of  the  wisdom 
that  has  been  commonly  attributed  to  the 

[243] 


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serpent  of  old.  His  reporter's  instinct  sensed 
out  a  good  story  in  it,  too,  but  his  pleadings 
with  the  old  judge  to  stay  over  for  one  more  day, 
anyhow,  were  not  altogether  based  on  a  pro 
fessional  foundation.  They  were  in  large  part 
personal. 

Judge  Priest,  caressing  a  certificate  of  deposit 
in  a  New  York  bank  doing  a  large  Southern 
business,  insisted  that  he  had  to  go.  So  Mai  ley 
went  with  him  to  the  ferry  and  together  they 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  ferryboat,  saying  good- 
by.  For  the  twentieth  time  Malley  was  prom 
ising  the  old  man  that  in  the  spring  he  would 
surely  come  to  Kentucky  and  visit  him.  And 
at  the  time  he  meant  it. 

In  front  of  them  as  they  faced  the  shore 
loomed  up  the  tall  buildings,  rising  jaggedly 
like  long  dog  teeth  in  Manhattan's  lower  jaw. 
There  were  pennons  of  white  steam  curling 
from  their  eaves.  The  Judge's  puckered  eyes 
took  in  the  picture,  from  the  crowded  streets 
below  to  the  wintry  blue  sky  above,  where 
mackerel-shaped  white  clouds  drifted  by,  all 
aiming  the  same  way,  like  a  school  of  silver 
fish. 

"Son,"  he  was  saying,  "I  don't  know  when 
I've  enjoyed  anything  more  than  this  here  little 
visit,  and  I'm  beholden  to  you  boys  for  a  lot. 
It's  been  pleasant  and  it's  been  profitable,  and 
I'm  proud  that  I  met  up  with  all  of  you." 

"When  will  you  be  coming  back,  judge?" 
asked  Malley. 

[244J 


STRATAGEM    AND     SPOILS 

"Well,  that  I  don't  know,"  admitted  the 
old  judge.  "You  see,  son,  I'm  gettin'  on  in 
years  considerably;  and  it's  sort  of  a  hard 
trip  from  away  down  where  I  live  plum'  up 
here  to  New  York.  As  a  matter  of  fact," 
he  went  on,  "this  was  the  third  time  in  my 
life  that  I  started  for  this  section  of  the  country. 
The  first  time  I  started  was  with  General 
Albert  Sidney  Johnston  and  a  lot  of  others; 
but,  owin'  to  meetin'  up  with  your  General 
Grant  at  a  place  called  Pittsburg  Landing  by 
your  people  and  Shiloh  by  ours,  we  sort  of 
altered  our  plans.  Later  on  I  started  again, 
bein'  then  temporarily  in  the  company  of 
General  John  Morgan,  of  my  own  state;  and 
that  time  we  got  as  far  as  the  southern  part 
of  the  state  of  Ohio  before  we  run  into  certain 
insurmountable  obstacles;  but  this  time  I 
managed  to  git  through.  I  was  forty-odd 
years  doin'  it  —  but  I  done  it !  And,  son,'* 
he  called  out  as  the  ferryboat  began  to  quiver 
and  Malley  stepped  ashore,  "I  don't  mind 
tellin'  you  in  strict  confidence  that  while  the 
third  Confederate  invasion  of  the  North  was 
a  long  time  gittin'  under  way,  it  proved  a  most 
complete  success  in  every  particular  when  it 
did.  Give  my  best  reguards  to  Miss  Margaret 
Mavine." 


[945] 


VIII 
THE  MOB   FROM  MASSAC 


YOU  might  call  it  a  tragedy  —  this  thing 
that  came  to  pass  down  in  our  country 
here  a  few  years  back.     For  that  was 
exactly  what  it  was  —  a  tragedy,  and 
in  its  way  a  big  one.     Yet  at  the  time  nobody 
thought  of  calling  it  by  any  name  at  all.     It 
was  just  one  of  those  shifts  that  are  inevitably 
bound  to  occur  in  the  local  politics  of  a  county 
or  a  district;   and  when  it  did  come,  and  was 
through  and  over  with,  most  people  accepted 
it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

There  were  some,  however,  it  left  jarred  and 
dazed  and  bewildered  —  yes,  and  helpless  too; 
men  too  old  to  readjust  their  altered  fortunes 
to  their  altered  conditions  even  if  they  had  the 
spirit  to  try,  which  they  hadn't.  Take  old 
Major  J.  Q.  A.  Pickett  now.  Attaching  himself 
firmly  to  a  certain  spot  at  the  far  end  of  SherrilPs 
bar,  with  one  leg  hooked  up  over  the  brass  bar- 
rail  —  a  leg  providentially  foreshortened  by  a 
Minie  ball  at  Shiloh,  as  if  for  that  very  purpose 

[246] 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAG 

—  the  major  expeditiously  drank  himself  to 
death  in  a  little  less  than  four  years,  which  was 
an  exceedingly  short  time  for  the  job,  seeing 
he  had  always  been  a  most  hale  and  hearty 
old  person,  though  grown  a  bit  gnarly  and 
skewed  with  the  coming  on  of  age.  The  major 
had  been  county  clerk  ever  since  Reconstruc 
tion;  he  was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar  and 
could  quote  Latin  and  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
poetry  by  the  running  yard.  Toward  the  last 
he  quoted  them  with  hiccups  and  a  stutter. 

Also  there  was  Captain  Andy  J.  Redcliffe, 
who  was  sheriff  three  terms  handrunning  and, 
before  that,  chief  of  police.  Going  out  of  office 
he  went  into  the  livery -stable  business;  but 
he  didn't  seem  to  make  much  headway  against 
the  Farrell  Brothers,  who  'owned  the  other  livery 
stable  and  were  younger  men  and  spry  and  alert 
to  get  trade.  He  spent  a  few  months  sitting 
at  the  front  door  of  his  yawning,  half-empty 
stables,  nursing  a  grudge  against  nearly  every 
thing  and  plaintively  garrulous  on  the  subject 
of  the  ingratitude  of  republics  in  general  and 
this  republic  in  particular;  and  presently  he 
sickened  of  one  of  those  mysterious  diseases 
that  seem  to  attack  elderly  men  of  a  full  habit 
of  life  and  to  rob  them  of  their  health  without 
denuding  them  of  their  flesh.  His  fat  sagged 
on  his  bones  in  unwholesome,  bloated  folds 
and  he  wallowed  unsteadily  when  he  walked. 
One  morning  one  of  his  stable  hands  found 
him  dead  in  his  office,  and  the  Gideon  K.  Irons 

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Camp  turned  out  and  gave  him  a  comrade's 
funeral,  with  full  military  honors. 

Also  there  were  two  or  three  others,  including 
ex-County  Treasurer  Whitford,  who  shot  him 
self  through  the  head  when  a  busy  and  con 
scientious  successor  found  in  his  accounts  a 
seeming  shortage  of  four  hundred  and  eighty 
dollars,  which  afterward  turned  out  to  be  more 
a  mistake  in  bookkeeping  than  anything  else. 
Yet  these  men  —  all  of  them  —  might  have 
seen  what  was  coming  had  they  watched.  The 
storm  that  wrecked  them  was  a  long  time  mak 
ing  up  —  four  years  before  it  had  threatened 
them. 

There  had  grown  up  a  younger  generation  of 
men  who  complained  —  and  perhaps  they  had 
reason  for  the  complaint  —  that  they  did  nearly 
all  the  work  of  organizing  and  campaigning 
and  furnished  most  of  the  votes  to  carry  the 
elections,  while  a  close  combine  of  aging,  fussy, 
autocratic  old  men  held  all  the  good  county 
offices  and  fatted  themselves  on  the  spoils  of 
county  politics.  These  mutterings  of  discon 
tent  found  shape  in  a  sort  of  semi-organized 
revolt  against  the  county  ring,  as  the  young 
fellows  took  to  calling  it,  and  for  the  county 
primary  they  made  up  a  strong  ticket  among 
themselves  —  a  ticket  that  included  two  smart 
young  lawyers  who  could  talk  on  their  feet, 
and  a  popular  young  farmer  for  sheriff,  and  a 
live  young  harnessmaker  as  a  representative  of 
union  labor,  which  was  beginning  to  be  a 

[2481 


THE     MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

recognized  force  in  the  community  with  the 
coming  of  the  two  big  tanneries.  They  made 
a  hard  fight  of  it,  too,  campaigning  at  every 
fork  in  the  big  road  and  every  country  store 
and  blacksmith  shop,  and  spouting  arguments 
and  oratory  like  so  many  inspired  human 
spigots.  Their  elderly  opponents  took  things 
easier.  They  rode  about  in  top  buggies  and 
democrat  wagons  from  barbecue  to  rally  and 
from  rally  to  schoolhouse  meeting,  steadfastly 
refusing  the  challenges  of  the  younger  men  for 
a  series  of  joint  debates  and  contenting  them 
selves  with  talking  over  old  days  with  fading, 
grizzled  men  of  their  own  generation.  These 
elders,  in  turn,  talked  with  their  sons  and  sons- 
in-law  and  their  nephews  and  neighbors;  and 
so,  when  the  primaries  came,  the  young  men's 
ticket  stood  beaten  —  but  not  by  any  big 
margin.  It  was  close  enough  to  be  very  close. 
"Well,  they've  licked  us  this  time!"  said 
Dabney  Prentiss,  who  afterward  went  to  Con 
gress  from  the  district  and  made  a  brilliant 
record  there.  Dabney  Prentiss  had  been  the 
younger  element's  candidate  for  circuit-court 
judge  against  old  Judge  Priest.  "They've 
licked  us  and  the  Lord  only  knows  how  they 
did  it.  Here  we  thought  we  had  'em  out- 
organized,  outgeneraled  and  outnumbered.  All 
they  did  was  to  go  out  in  the  back  districts  and 
beat  the  bushes,  and  out  crawled  a  lot  of  old 
men  that  everybody  else  thought  were  dead 
twenty  years  ago.  I  think  they  must  hide 

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under  logs  in  the  woods  and  only  come  out  to 
vote.  But,  fellows"  —  he  was  addressing  some 
of  his  companions  in  disappointment  —  "but, 
fellows,  we  can  afford  to  wait  and  they  can't. 
The  day  is  going  to  come  when  it'll  take  some 
thing  more  than  shaking  an  empty  sleeve  or 
waving  a  crippled  old  leg  to  carry  an  election 
in  this  county.  Young  men  keep  growing  up 
all  the  time,  but  all  that  old  men  can  do  is  to  die 
off.  Four  years  from  now  we'll  win  sure!" 

The  four  years  went  by,  creakingly  slow  of 
passage  to  some  and  rolling  fast  to  others;  and 
in  the  summer  of  the  fourth  year  another 
campaign  started  up  and  grew  hot  and  hotter 
to  match  the  weather,  which  was  blazing  hot. 
The  August  drought  came,  an  arid  and  a  blister 
ing  visitation.  Except  at  dusk  and  at  dawn 
the  birds  quit  singing  and  hung  about  in  the 
thick  treetops,  silent  and  nervous,  with  their 
bills  agape  and  their  throat  feathers  panting 
up  and  down.  The  roasting  ears  burned  to 
death  on  the  stalk  and  the  wide  fodder  blades 
slowly  cooked  from  sappy  greenness  to  a  brittle 
dead  brown.  The  clods  in  the  cornrows  were 
dry  as  powder  and  gave  no  nourishment  for 
growing,  ripening  things.  The  dust  powdered 
the  blackberry  vines  until  they  lost  their 
original  color  altogether,  and  at  the  roadside 
the  medicinal  mullein  drooped  its  wilted  long 
leaves,  like  lolling  tongues  that  were  all  furred 
and  roiled,  as  though  the  mullein  suffered  from 
the  very  fevers  that  its  steeped  juices  are  pre- 

[250] 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAC 

sumed  to  cure.  At  its  full  the  moon  shone  hot 
and  red,  with  two  rings  round  it;  and  the  two 
rings  always  used  to  mean  water  in  our  country 
—  two  rings  for  drinking  water  at  the  hotel, 
and  for  rainwater  two  rings  round  the  moon  — 
but  week  after  week  no  rain  fell  and  the  face  of 
the  earth  just  seemed  to  dry  up  and  blow  away. 
Yet  the  campaign  neither  lost  its  edge  nor 
abated  any  of  its  fervor  by  reason  of  the  weather. 
Politics  was  the  chief  diversion  and  the  main 
excitement  in  our  county  in  those  days — and 
still  is. 

One  morning  near  the  end  of  the  month  a 
dust-covered  man  on  a  sorely  spent  horse 
galloped  in  from  Massac  Creek,  down  in  the 
far  edge  of  the  county ;  and  when  he  had  changed 
horses  at  Farrell  Brothers'  and  started  back 
again  there  went  with  him  the  sheriff,  both 
of  his  deputies  and  two  of  the  town  policemen, 
the  sheriff  taking  with  him  in  his  buckboard 
a  pair  of  preternaturally  grave  dogs  of  a  reddish- 
brown  aspect,  with  long,  drooping  ears,  and 
long,  sad,  stupid  faces  and  eyes  like  the  chief 
mourners'  at  a  funeral.  They  were  blood 
hounds,  imported  at  some  cost  from  a  kennel 
in  Tennessee  and  reputed  to  be  marvelously 
wise  in  the  tracking  down  of  criminals.  By 
the  time  the  posse  was  a  mile  away  and  headed 
for  Massac  a  story  had  spread  through  the 
town  that  made  men  grit  their  teeth  and  sent 
certain  armed  and  mounted  volunteers  hurrying 
out  to  join  the  manhunt. 

[2511 


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Late  that  same  afternoon  a  team  of  blown 
horses,  wet  as  though  they  had  wallowed  in  the 
river  and  drawing  a  top  buggy,  panted  up  to 
the  little  red-brick  jail,  which  stood  on  the 
county  square  alongside  the  old  wooden  white 
courthouse,  and  halted  there.  Two  men  — 
a  constable  and  a  deputy  sheriff  —  sat  back 
under  the  overhanging  top  of  the  buggy,  and 
between  them  something  small  was  crushed, 
huddled  down  on  the  seat  and  almost  hidden 
by  their  broad  figures.  They  were  both  yel 
lowed  with  the  dust  of  a  hard  drive.  It  lay 
on  their  shoulders  like  powdered  sulphur  and 
was  gummed  to  their  eyelashes,  so  that  when 
they  batted  their  eyelids  to  clear  their  sight  it 
gave  them  a  grotesque,  clownish  look.  They 
climbed  laboriously  out  and  stretched  their 
limbs. 

The  constable  hurried  stiffly  up  the  short 
gravel  path  to  the  jail  and  rapped  on  the  door 
and  called  out  something.  The  deputy  sheriff 
reached  in  under  the  buggy  top  and  hauled 
out  a  little  negro,  skinny  and  slight  and  seem 
ingly  not  over  eighteen  years  old.  He  hauled 
him  out  as  though  he  was  handling  a  sack  of 
grits,  and  the  negro  came  out  like  a  sack  of 
grits  and  fell  upon  his  face  on  the  pavement, 
almost  between  the  buggy  wheels.  His  wrists 
were  held  together  by  a  pair  of  iron  handcuffs 
heavy  enough  to  fetter  a  bear,  and  for  further 
precaution  his  legs  had  been  hobbled  with  a 
plowline,  and  his  arms  were  tied  back  with 

[252] 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAG 

another  length  of  the  plowline  that  passed 
through  his  elbows  and  was  knotted  behind. 
The  deputy  stooped,  took  a  grip  on  the  rope 
across  the  prisoner's  back  and  heaved  hirn  up 
to  his  feet.  He  was  ragged,  barefooted  and 
bareheaded  and  his  face  was  covered  with  a 
streaky  clayish-yellow  caking,  where  the  sweat 
had  run  down  and  wetted  the  dust  layers. 
Through  this  rnuddy  mask  his  pop-eyes  stared 
with  a  dulled  animal  terror. 

Thus  yanked  upright  the  little  negro  swayed 
on  his  feet,  shrinking  up  his  shoulders  and 
lurching  in  his  tethers.  Then  his  glazed  stare 
fell  on  the  barred  windows  and  the  hooded 
door  of  the  jail,  and  he  realized  where  he  had 
been  brought  and  hurried  toward  it  as  toward 
a  welcome  haven,  stretching  his  legs  as  far  as 
the  ropes  sawing  on  his  naked  ankles  would 
let  him.  Willing  as  he  was,  however,  he  col 
lapsed  altogether  as  he  reached  the  door  and 
lay  on  his  face  kinking  and  twisting  up  in  his 
bonds  like  a  stricken  thing.  The  deputy  and 
the  constable  dragged  him  up  roughly,  one 
lifting  him  by  his  arm  bindings  and  the  other 
by  the  ropes  on  his  legs,  and  they  pitched  him 
in  flat  on  the  floor  of  the  little  jail  office.  He 
wriggled  himself  under  a  table  and  lay  there, 
sniffling  out  his  fear  and  relief.  His  tongue 
hung  out  of  his  mouth  like  the  tongue  of  a  tied 
calf,  and  he  panted  with  choky,  slobbering 
sounds. 

The  deputy  sheriff  and  the  constable  left 

[253] 


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him  lying  and  went  to  a  water  bucket  in  the 
corner  and  drank  down  brimming  dippers,  turn 
and  turn  about,  as  though  their  thirst  was 
unslakable.  It  was  Dink  Bynum,  the  deputy 
jailer,  who  had  admitted  them  and  in  the 
absence  of  his  superior  he  was  in  charge  solely. 
He  waited  until  the  two  had  lowered  the  water 
line  in  the  cedar  bucket  by  a  matter  of  inches. 

"Purty  quick  work,  boys,"  he  said  pro 
fessionally,  "if  this  is  the  right  nigger." 

"I  guess  there  ain't  much  doubt  about  him 
bein'  the  right  one,"  said  the  constable,  whose 
name  was  Quarles.  "Is  there,  Gus?"  he 
added. 

"No  doubt  at  all  in  my  mind,"  said  the 
deputy.  He  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve, 
which  smeared  the  dust  across  his  face  in  a 
sort  of  pattern. 

"How'd  you  fellers  come  to  git  him?"  asked 
Bynum. 

"Well,"  said  the  deputy,  "we  got  out  to  the 
Hampton  place  about  dinner  time  I  reckin  it 
was.  Every  man  along  the  creek  and  every 
boy  that  was  big  enough  to  tote  a  gun  was  out 
scourin'  the  woods  and  there  wasn't  nobody 
round  the  place  exceptin'  a  passel  of  the  women 
folks.  Just  over  the  fence  where  the  nigger 
was  s 'posed  to  have  crossed  we  found  his  old 
wool  hat  lay  in'  right  where  he'd  run  out  from 
under  it  and  we  let  the  dogs  smell  of  it,  and 
inside  of  five  minutes  they'd  picked  up  a  trail 
and  was  openin'  out  on  it.  It  was  monstrous 

[2541 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAG 

hot  going  through  them  thick  bottoms  afoot, 
and  me  and  Quarles  here  outrun  the  sheriff 
and  the  others.  Four  miles  back  of  Florence 
Station,  and  not  more'n  a  mile  from  the  river, 
we  found  this  nigger  treed  up  a  hackberry  with 
the  dogs  bayin'  under  him.  I  figure  he'd  been 
hidin'  out  in  the  woods  all  night  and  was  makin' 
for  the  river,  aimin'  to  cross,  when  the  dogs 
fetched  up  behind  him  and  made  him  take  to 
a  tree." 

"Did  you  carry  him  back  for  the  girl  to 
see?" 

"No,"  said  the  deputy  sheriff.  "Me  and 
Quarles  we  talked  it  over  after  we'd  got  him 
down  and  had  him  roped  up.  In  the  first  place 
she  wasn't  in  no  condition  to  take  a  look  at  him, 
and  besides  we  knowed  that  them  Massac 
people  jest  natchelly  wouldn't  listen  to  nothin' 
oncet  they  laid  eyes  on  him.  They'd  'a'  tore 
him  apart  bodily." 

The  bound  figure  on  the  floor  began  moan 
ing  in  a  steady,  dead  monotone,  with  his  lips 
against  the  planking. 

"So,  bein'  as  me  and  Quarles  wanted  the 
credit  for  bringin'  him  in,  not  to  mention  the 
reward,"  went  on  the  deputy,  without  a  glance 
at  the  moaning  negro,  "  we  decided  not  to  take 
no  chances.  I  kept  him  out  of  sight  until 
Quarles  could  go  over  to  the  river  and  borrow 
a  rig,  and  we  driv  in  with  him  by  the  lower  road, 
acrost  the  iron  bridge,  without  goin'  anywhere 
near  Massac." 

[255] 


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"What  does  the  nigger  say  for  himself?" 
asked  Bynum,  greedy  for  all  the  details. 

"Huh!"  said  the  deputy.  "He's  been  too 
scared  to  say  much  of  anything.  Says  he'd 
tramped  up  here  from  below  the  state  line  and 
was  makin'  for  Ballard  County,  lookin'  for 
a  job  of  work.  He's  a  strange  nigger  all  right. 
And  he  as  good  as  admits  he  was  right  near  the 
Hampton  place  yistiddy  evenin'  at  milkin' 
time,  when  the  girl  was  laywaid,  and  says  he 
only  run  because  the  dogs  took  out  after  him 
and  scared  him.  But  here  he  is.  We've  done 
our  duty  and  delivered  him,  and  now  if  the 
boys  out  yonder  on  Massac  want  to  come  in 
and  take  him  out  that's  their  lookout  and  yourn, 
Dink." 

"I  reckon  you  ain't  made  no  mistake,"  said 
Bynum.  Cursing  softly  under  his  breath  he 
walked  over  and  spurned  the  prisoner  with  his 
heavy  foot.  The  negro  writhed  under  the 
pressure  like  a  crushed  insect.  The  under  jailer 
looked  down  at  him  with  a  curious  tautening 
of  his  heavy  features. 

"The  papers  call  'em  burly  black  brutes," 
he  said,  "and  I  never  seen  one  of  'em  yit  that 
was  more'n  twenty  years  old  or  run  over  a 
hundred  and  thirty  pound."  He  raised  his 
voice:  "Jim  —  oh,  Jim!" 

An  inner  door  of  sheet-iron  opened  with  a 
suspicious  instantaneousness,  and  in  the  open 
ing  appeared  a  black  jail  trusty,  a  confirmed 
chicken  thief.  He  ducked  his  head  in  turn 

[  256  1 


THE     MOB     FROM     MASSAC 

toward  each  of  the  white  men,  carefully  keep 
ing  his  uneasy  gaze  away  from  the  little  negro 
lying  between  the  table  legs  in  the  corner. 

"Yas,  suh,  boss  —  right  here,  suh,"  said 
the  trusty. 

"Here,  Jim"  —  the  deputy  jailer  was  opening 
his  pocketknife  and  passing  it  over  —  "take 
and  cut  them  ropes  off  that  nigger's  arms  and 
laigs." 

With  a  ludicrous  alacrity  the  trusty  obeyed. 

"Now  pull  him  up  on  his  feet!"  commanded 
Bynum.  "  I  guess  we  might  as  well  leave  them 
cuffs  on  him  —  eh?"  he  said  to  the  deputy 
sheriff.  The  deputy  nodded.  Bynum  took 
down  from  a  peg  over  the  jailer's  desk  a  ring 
bearing  many  jingling  keys  of  handwrought  iron. 
"Bring  him  in  here,  Jim,"  he  bade  the  trusty. 

He  stepped  through  the  inner  door  and  the 
negro  Jim  followed  him,  steering  the  manacled 
little  negro.  Quarles,  the  constable,  and  the 
deputy  sheriff  tagged  behind  to  see  their  catch 
properly  caged.  They  went  along  a  short  corri 
dor,  filled  with  a  stifling,  baked  heat  and  heavy 
with  the  smell  of  penned-up  creatures.  There 
were  faces  at  the  barred  doors  of  the  cells  that 
lined  one  side  of  this  corridor  —  all  black  or 
yellow  faces  except  one  white  one;  and  from 
these  cells  came  no  sound  at  all  as  the  three 
white  men  and  the  two  negroes  passed.  Only 
the  lone  white  prisoner  spoke  out. 

"Who  is  he,  Dink?"  he  called  eagerly. 
"What's  he  done?" 


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"Shut  up!"  ordered  his  keeper  briefly,  and 
that  was  the  only  answer  he  made.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  passage  Bynum  turned  a  key  in 
a  creaky  lock  and  threw  back  the  barred  door 
of  an  inner  cell,  sheathed  with  iron  and  lack 
ing  a  window.  The  trusty  shoved  in  the  little 
handcuffed  negro  and  the  negro  groveled  on  the 
wooden  floor  upon  all  fours.  Bynum  locked 
the  door  and  the  three  white  men  tramped 
back  through  the  silent  corridor,  followed  by 
the  sets  of  white  eyes  that  stared  out  unwink- 
ingly  at  them  through  the  iron-latticed  grills. 
It  was  significant  that  from  the  time  of  the 
arrival  at  the  jail  not  one  of  the  whites  had 
laid  his  hands  actually  upon  the  prisoner. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Bynum  to  the  others  by 
way  of  a  farewell,  "there  he  is  and  there  he'll 
stay  —  unless  them  Massac  Creek  folks  come 
and  git  him.  You've  done  your  sworn  duty 
and  I've  done  mine.  I  locked  him  up  and  I 
won't  be  responsible  for  what  happens  now. 
I  know  this  much  —  I  ain't  goin'  to  git  myself 
crippled  up  savin'  that  nigger.  If  a  mob  wants 
to  come  let  'em  come  on!" 

No  mob  came  from  Massac  that  night  or  the 
next  night  either;  and  on  the  second  day  there 
was  a  big  basket  picnic  and  rally  under  a  brush 
arbor  at  the  Shady  Grove  schoolhouse  —  the 
biggest  meeting  of  the  whole  campaign  it  was 
to  be,  with  speaking,  and  the  silver  cornet 
band  out  from  town  to  make  music,  and  the 
oldest  living  Democrat  in  the  county  sitting 

[258] 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAC 

on  the  platform,  and  all  that.  Braving  the 
piled-on  layers  of  heat  that  rode  the  parched 
country  like  witch-hags  half  the  town  went  to 
Shady  Grove.  Nearly  everybody  went  that 
could  travel.  All  the  morning  wagons  and 
buggies  were  clattering  out  of  town,  headed 
toward  the  west.  And  in  the  cooking  dead 
calm  of  the  midaf ternoon  the  mob  from  Massac 
came. 

They  came  by  roundabout  ways,  avoiding 
those  main  traveled  roads  over  which  the  crowds 
were  gathering  in  toward  the  common  focus 
of  the  Shady  Grove  schoolhouse;  and  coming 
so,  on  horseback  by  twos  and  threes,  and  leav 
ing  their  horses  in  a  thicket  half  a  mile  out, 
they  were  able  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  town 
unnoticed  and  unsuspected.  The  rest,  their 
leader  figured,  would  be  easy.  A  mistake  in 
judgment  by  the  town  fathers  in  an  earlier  day 
had  put  the  public  square  near  the  northern 
boundary,  and  the  town,  instead  of  growing 
up  to  it,  grew  away  from  it  in  the  opposite 
direction,  so  that  the  square  stood  well  beyond 
the  thickly  settled  district. 

All  things  had  worked  out  well  for  their 
purpose.  The  sheriff  and  the  jailer,  both 
candidates  for  renomination,  were  at  Shady 
Grove,  and  the  sheriff  had  all  his  deputies  with 
him,  electioneering  for  their  own  jobs  and  his. 
Legal  Row,  the  little  street  of  lawyers'  offices 
back  of  the  square,  might  have  been  a  byroad 
in  old  Pompeii  for  all  the  life  that  showed  along 

[259] 


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its  short  and  simmering  length.  No  idlers 
lay  under  the  water  maples  and  the  red  oaks 
in  the  square.  The  jail  baked  in  the  sunlight, 
silent  as  a  brick  tomb,  which  indeed  it  some 
what  resembled;  and  on  the  wide  portico  of  the 
courthouse  a  loafer  dog  of  remote  hound  ante 
cedents  alternately  napped  and  roused  to  snap 
at  the  buzzing  flies.  The  door  of  the  clerk's 
office  stood  agape  and  through  the  opening 
came  musty,  snuffy  smells  of  old  leather  and 
dry-rotted  deeds.  The  wide  hallway  that  ran 
from  end  to  end  of  the  old  building  was  empty 
and  echoed  like  a  cave  to  the  frequent  thump 
of  the  loafer  dog's  leg  joints  upon  the  planking. 
Indeed,  the  whole  place  had  but  a  single 
occupant.  In  his  office  back  of  the  circuit- 
court  room  Judge  Priest  was  asleep,  tilted  back 
in  a  swivel  chair,  with  his  short,  plump  legs 
propped  on  a  table  and  his  pudgy  hands  locked 
across  his  stomach,  which  gently  rose  and  fell 
with  his  breathing.  His  straw  hat  was  on  the 
table,  and  in  a  corner  leaned  his  inevitable 
traveling  companion  in  summer  weather — 
a  vast  and  cavernous  umbrella  of  a  pattern 
that  is  probably  obsolete  now,  an  unkempt 
old  drab  slattern  of  an  umbrella  with  a  cracked 
wooden  handle  and  a  crippled  rib  that  dangled 
away  from  its  fellows  as  though  shamed  by  its 
afflicted  state.  The  campaigning  had  been 
hard  on  the  old  judge.  The  Monday  before, 
at  a  rally  at  Temple's  Mills,  he  had  fainted, 
and  this  day  he  hadn't  felt  equal  to  going  to 

[260] 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAC 

Shady  Grove.  Instead  he  had  come  to  his 
office  after  dinner  to  write  some  letters  and  had 
fallen  asleep.  He  slept  on  for  an  hour,  a  picture 
of  pink  and  cherubic  old  age,  with  little  bead- 
ings  of  sweat  popping  out  thickly  on  his  high 
bald  head  and  a  gentle  little  snoring  sound,  of 
first  a  drone  and  then  a  whistle,  pouring  steadily 
from  his  pursed  lips. 

Outside  a  dry-fly  rasped  the  brooding  silence 
up  and  down  with  its  fret-saw  refrain.  In  the 
open  spaces  the  little  heat  waves  danced  like 
so  many  stress  marks,  accenting  the  warmth 
and  giving  emphasis  to  it;  and  far  down  the 
street,  which  ran  past  the  courthouse  and  the 
jail  and  melted  into  a  country  road  so  imper 
ceptibly  that  none  knew  exactly  where  the 
street  left  off  and  the  road  began,  there  ap 
peared  a  straggling,  irregular' company  of  men 
marching,  their  shapes  more  than  half  hid  in 
a  dust  column  of  their  own  raising.  The 
Massac  men  were  coming. 

I  believe  there  is  a  popular  conception  to  the 
effect  that  an  oncoming  mob  invariably  utters 
a  certain  indescribable,  sinister,  muttering 
sound  that  is  peculiar  to  mobs.  For  all  I  know 
that  may  be  true  of  some  mobs,  but  certain  it 
was  that  this  mob  gave  vent  to  no  such  sounds. 
This  mob  came  on  steadily,  making  no  more 
noise  than  any  similar  group  of  seventy -five  or 
eighty  men  tramping  over  a  dusty  road  might 
be  expected  to  make. 

For  the  most  part  they  were  silent  and  barren 

[261] 


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of  speech.  One  youngish  man  kept  repeating 
to  himself  a  set  phrase  as  he  marched  along. 
This  phrase  never  varied  in  word  or  expression. 
It  was:  "Goin'  to  git  that  nigger!  Goin'  to 
git  that  nigger!"  -that  was  all  —  said  over 
and  over  again  in  a  dull,  steady  monotone. 
By  its  constant  reiteration  he  was  working 
himself  up,  just  as  a  rat-terrier  may  be  worked 
up  by  constant  hissed  references  to  purely 
imaginary  rats. 

Their  number  was  obscured  by  the  dust  their 
feet  lifted.  It  was  as  if  each  man  at  every 
step  crushed  with  his  toe  a  puffball  that  dis 
charged  its  powdery  particles  upward  into  his 
face.  Some  of  them  carried  arms  openly  — 
shotguns  and  rifles.  The  others  showed  no 
weapons,  but  had  them.  It  seemed  that  every 
fourth  man,  nearly,  had  coiled  upon  his  arm 
or  swung  over  his  shoulder  a  rope  taken  from  a 
plow  or  a  well-bucket.  They  had  enough  rope 
to  hang  ten  men  or  a  dozen  —  yes,  with  stinting, 
to  hang  twenty.  One  man  labored  under  the 
weight  of  a  three-gallon  can  of  coal-oil,  so 
heavy  that  he  had  to  shift  it  frequently  from 
one  tired  arm  to  the  other.  In  that  weather 
the  added  burden  made  the  sour  sweat  run 
down  in  streaks,  furrowing  the  grime  on  his 
face.  The  Massac  Creek  blacksmith  had  a 
sledge-hammer  over  his  shoulder  and  was  in 
the  front  rank.  Not  one  was  masked  or  carried 
his  face  averted.  Nearly  all  were  grown  men 
and  not  one  was  under  twenty.  A  certain 

[262] 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAC 

definite  purpose  showed  in  their  gait.  It 
showed,  also,  in  the  way  they  closed  up  and 
became  a  more  compact  formation  as  they 
came  within  sight  of  the  trees  fringing  the 
square. 

Down  through  the  drowsing  town  edge  they 
stepped,  giving  alarm  only  to  the  chickens  that 
scratched  languidly  where  scrub-oaks  cast  a 
skimpy  shade  across  the  road;  but  as  they 
reached  the  town  line  they  passed  a  clutter  of 
negro  cabins  clustering  about  a  little  doggery. 
A  negro  woman  stepped  to  a  door  and  saw  them. 
Distractedly,  fluttering  like  a  hen,  she  ran  into 
the  bare,  grassless  yard,  setting  up  a  hysterical 
outcry.  A  negro  man  came  quickly  from  the 
cabin,  clapped  his  hand  over  her  mouth  and 
dragged  her  back  inside,  slamming  the  door  to 
behind  him  with  a  kick  of  his  bare  foot.  Un 
seen  hands  shut  the  other  cabin  doors  and 
the  woman's  half -smothered  cries  came  dimly 
through  the  clapboarded  wall;  but  a  slim 
black  darky  darted  southward  from  the  doggery, 
worming  his  way  under  a  broken,  snaggled 
fence  and  keeping  the  straggling  line  of  houses 
and  stables  between  him  and  the  marchers. 
This  fleeing  figure  was  Jeff,  Judge  Priest's 
negro  bodyservant,  who  had  a  most  amazing 
faculty  for  always  being  wherever  things 
happened. 

Jeff  was  short  and  slim  and  he  could  run  fast. 
He  ran  fast  now,  snatching  off  his  hat  and 
carrying  it  in  his  hand  —  the  surest  of  all  signs 

[263] 


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that  a  negro  is  traveling  at  his  top  gait.  A 
good  eighth  of  a  mile  in  advance  of  the  mob, 
he  shot  in  at  the  back  door  of  the  courthouse 
and  flung  himself  into  his  employer's  room. 

"Jedge!  Jedge!"  he  panted  tensely.  "Jedge 
Priest,  please,  suh,  wake  up  —  the  mobbers  is 
comin' !" 

Judge  Priest  came  out  of  his  nap  with  a  jerk 
that  uprighted  him  in  his  chair. 

"What's  that,  boy?" 

"The  w'ite  folks  is  comin'  after  that  there 
little  nigger  over  in  the  jail.  I  outrun  'em  to 
git  yere  and  tell  you,  suh." 

"Ah-hah!"  said  Judge  Priest,  which  was 
what  Judge  Priest  generally  said  first  of  all 
when  something  struck  him  forcibly.  He 
reared  himself  up  briskly  and  reached  for  his 
hat  and  umbrella. 

"Which  way  are  they  comin'  from?"  he  asked 
as  he  made  for  the  hall  and  the  front  door. 

"Comin'  down  the  planin'-mill  road  into 
Jefferson  Street,"  explained  Jeff,  gasping  out 
the  words. 

As  the  old  judge,  with  Jeff  in  his  wake, 
emerged  from  the  shadows  of  the  tall  hallway 
into  the  blinding  glare  of  the  portico  they  met 
Dink  Bynum,  the  deputy  jailer,  just  diving  in. 
Dink  was  shirtsleeved.  His  face  was  curiously 
checkered  with  red-and-white  blotches.  He 
cast  a  backward  glance,  bumped  into  the 
judge's  greater  bulk  and  caromed  off,  snatching 
at  the  air  to  recover  himself. 

[264] 


THE     MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

"Are  you  desertin'  your  post,  Dink?"  de 
manded  the  judge. 

"  Jedge,  there  wasn't  no  manner  of  use  in  my 
stayin',"  babbled  Bynum.  "I'm  all  alone  and 
there's  a  whole  big  crowd  of  'em  comin'  yonder. 
There'll  git  that  nigger  anyhow  —  and  he 
deserves  it! "  he  burst  out. 

"Dink  Bynum,  where  are  the  keys  to  that 
jail?"  said  Judge  Priest,  speaking  unusually 
fast  for  him. 

"I  clean  forgot  'em!"  he  quavered.  "I  left 
'em  hangin'  in  the  jail  office." 

"And  also  I  note  you  left  the  outside  door 
of  the  jail  standin'  wide  open,"  said  the 
judge,  glancing  to  the  left.  "Where's  your 
pistol?" 

"In  my  pocket  —  in  my  pocket,  here." 

"Git  it  out!" 

"Jedge  Priest,  I  wouldn't  dare  make  no 
resistance  single-handed  —  I  got  a  family  — 
I  —  "  faltered  the  unhappy  deputy  jailer. 

The  moving  dustcloud,  with  legs  and  arms 
showing  through  its  swirling  front,  was  no  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  away.  You  could  make 
out  details  —  hot,  red,  resolute  faces;  the  glint 
of  the  sun  on  a  gunbarrel;  the  polished  nose 
of  the  blacksmith's  sledge;  the  round  curve  of 
a  greasy  oilcan. 

"Dink  Bynum,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "git 
that  gun  out  and  give  it  to  me  —  quick!" 

"Jedge,  listen  to  reason!"  begged  Bynum. 
"You're  a  candidate  yourse'f.  Sentiment  is 

[265J 


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aginst  that  nigger  —  strong.  You'll  hurt  your 
own  chances  if  you  interfere." 

The  judge  didn't  answer.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  dustcloud  and  his  hand  was  extended. 
His  pudgy  fingers  closed  round  the  heavy  hand 
ful  of  blued  steel  that  Dink  Bynum  passed  over 
and  he  shoved  it  out  of  sight.  Laboring  heavily 
down  the  steps  he  opened  his  umbrella  and  put 
it  over  his  shoulder,  and  as  he  waddled  down  the 
short  gravel  path  his  shadow  had  the  grotesque 
semblance  of  a  big  crawling  land  terrapin 
following  him.  One  look  Judge  Priest  sent 
over  his  shoulder.  Dink  Bynum  and  Jeff  had 
both  vanished.  Except  for  the  men  from 
Massac  there  was  no  living  being  to  be  seen. 

They  didn't  see  him,  either,  until  they  were 
right  upon  him.  He  came  out  across  the  narrow 
sidewalk  of  the  square  and  halted  directly  in 
their  path,  with  his  right  hand  raised  and  his 
umbrella  tilted  far  back,  so  that  its  shade  cut 
across  the  top  of  his  straw  hat,  making  a  distinct 
line. 

"Boys,"  he  said  familiarly,  almost  pater 
nally  —  "  Boys,  I  want  to  have  a  word  with 
you." 

Most  of  the  Massac  men  knew  him  —  some 
of  them  knew  him  very  well.  They  had  served 
on  juries  under  him;  he  had  eaten  Sunday 
dinners  under  then*  rooftrees.  They  stopped, 
the  rear  rows  crowding  up  closer  until  they 
were  a  solid  mass  facing  him.  Beyond  him 
they  could  see  the  outer  door  of  the  jail  gaping 

[2661 


THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAC 

hospitably  and  the  sight  gave  an  edge  to  their 
purpose  that  was  like  the  gnawing  of  physical 
hunger.  Above  all  things  they  were  sharp-set 
to  hurry  forward  the  thing  they  had  it  in  their 
minds  to  do. 

"Boys,"  said  the  judge,  "most  of  you  are 
friends  of  name  —  and  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  You  mustn't  do  the  thing  you're  pur- 
posin'  to  do  —  you  mustn't  do  it!" 

A  snorted  outburst,  as  of  incredulity,  came 
from  the  sweating  clump  of  countrymen  con 
fronting  him. 

"The  hell  we  mustn't!"  drawled  one  of  them 
derisively,  and  a  snicker  started. 

The  snicker  grew  to  a  laugh  —  a  laugh  with 
a  thread  of  grim  menace  in  it,  and  a  tinge  of 
mounting  man-hysteria.  Even  to  these  men, 
whose  eyes  were  used  to  resting  on  ungainly 
and  awkward  old  men,  the  figure  of  Judge  Priest, 
standing  in  their  way  alone,  had  a  grotesque 
emphasis.  The  judge's  broad  stomach  stuck 
far  out  in  front  and  was  balanced  by  the  rear 
ward  bulge  of  his  umbrella.  His  white  chin- 
beard  was  streaked  with  tobacco  stains.  The 
legs  of  his  white  linen  trousers  were  caught  up 
on  his  shins  and  bagged  dropsically  at  the  knees. 
The  righthand  pocket  of  his  black  alpaca  coat 
was  sagged  away  down  by  some  heavy  unseen 
weight. 

None  of  the  men  in  the  front  rank  joined 
in  the  snickering  however;  they  only  looked 
at  the  judge  with  a  sort  of  respectful  obstinacy. 

[267] 


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There  was  nothing  said  for  maybe  twenty 
seconds. 

"Jedge  Priest,"  said  a  spokesman,  a  tall, 
spare,  bony  man  with  a  sandy  drooping  mus 
tache  and  a  nose  that  beaked  over  like  a  butcher 
bird's  bill  —  "Jedge  Priest,  we've  come  after 
a  nigger  boy  that's  locked  up  in  that  jail 
yonder  and  we're  goin'  to  have  him!  Speak 
ing  personally,  most  of  us  here  know  you  and 
we  all  like  you,  suh;  but  I'll  have  to  ask  you 
to  stand  aside  and  let  us  go  ahead  about  our 
business." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Judge  Priest,  without 
altering  his  tone,  "the  law  of  this  state  pro 
vides  a  proper " 

"The  law  provides — eh?"  mimicked  the 
man  who  had  laughed  first.  "The  law  pro 
vides,  does  it?" 

" provides  a  fittin'  and  an  orderly  way 

of  attendin'  to  these  matters,"  went  on  the 
judge.  "In  the  absence  of  the  other  sworn 
officials  of  this  county  I  represent  in  my  own 
humble  person  the  majesty  of  the  law,  and  I 
say  to  you " 

"Jedge  Priest,"  cut  in  the  beaky-nosed  man, 
"you  are  an  old  man  and  you  stand  mighty  high 
in  this  community  —  none  higher.  We  don't 
none  of  us  want  to  do  nothin'  or  say  nothin' 
to  you  that  mout  be  regretted  afterward;  but 
we  air  goin'  to  have  that  nigger  out  of  that  jail 
and  stretch  his  neck  for  him.  He's  one  nigger 
that's  lived  too  long  already.  You'd  better 

[268] 


W 


M    M 

_:  - 

S  w 

K  CO 
0.  « 

»i 

o  * 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

step  back!"  he  went  on.  "You're  just  wastin* 
your  time  and  ourn." 

A  growling  assent  to  this  sentiment  ran 
through  the  mob.  It  was  a  growl  that  carried 
a  snarl.  There  was  a  surging  forward  move 
ment  from  the  rear  and  a  restless  rustle  of 
limbs. 

"Wait  a  minute,  boys!"  said  the  leader. 
"  Wait  a  minute.  There's  no  hurry  —  we'll 
git  him!  Jedge  Priest,"  he  went  on,  changing 
his  tone  to  one  of  regardful  admonition,  "you've 
got  a  race  on  for  reelection  and  you'll  need 
every  vote  you  kin  git.  I  hope  you  ain't  goin* 
to  do  nothin'  that'll  maybe  hurt  your  chances 
among  us  Massac  Creekers." 

"That's  the  second  time  that's  been  throwed 
up  to  me  inside  of  five  minutes,"  said  Judge 
Priest.  "  My  chances  for  election  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  the  matter  now  in  hand  —  remember 
that!" 

"All  right — all  right!"  assented  the  other. 
"Then  I'll  tell  you  somethin'  else.  Us  men 
have  come  in  broad  daylight,  not  hidin'  our 
faces  from  the  noonday  sun.  We  air  open  and 
aboveboard  about  this  thing.  Every  able- 
bodied,  self-respectin'  white  man  in  our  precinct 
is  right  here  with  me  today.  We've  talked  it 
over  and  we  know  what  we  air  doin'.  If  you 
want  to  take  down  our  names  and  prosecute 
us  in  the  cotes  you  kin  go  ahead." 

Somebody  else  spoke  up. 

"I'd  admire  to  see  the  jury  in  this  county 

[269] 


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that  would  pop  the  law  to  ary  one  of  us  for 
swingin'  up  this  nigger!"  he  said,  chuckling 
at  the  naked  folly  of  the  notion. 

"You're  right,  my  son,"  said  the  judge, 
singling  out  the  speaker  with  his  aimed  fore 
finger.  "I  ain't  tryin'  to  scare  grown  men 
like  you  with  such  talk  as  that.  I  know  how 
you  feel.  I  can  understand  how  you  feel  — 
every  man  with  white  blood  in  his  veins  knows 
just  what  your  feelin's  are.  I'm  not  trying  to 
threaten  you.  I  only  want  to  reason  with  you 
and  talk  sense  with  you.  This  here  boy  ain't 
been  identified  yet  —  remember  that!" 

"We  know  he's  guilty!"    said  the  leader. 

"I'll  admit  that  circumstances  may  be 
against  him,"  pleaded  the  judge,  "but  his 
guilt  remains  to  be  proved.  You  can't  hang 
any  man  —  you  can't  hang  even  this  poor, 
miserable  little  darky  —  jest  on  suspicion." 

"The  dogs  trailed  him,  didn't  they?" 

"A  dog's  judgment  is  mighty  nigh  as  poor 
as  a  man's  sometimes,"  he  answered  back, 
fighting  hard  for  every  shade  of  favor.  "It's 
my  experience  that  a  bloodhound  is  about  the 
biggest  fool  dog  there  is.  Now  listen  here  to 
me,  boys,  a  minute.  That  boy  in  the  jail  is 
goin'  to  be  tried  just  as  soon  as  I  can  convene  a 
special  grand  jury  to  indict  him  and  a  special 
term  of  court  to  try  him,  and  if  he's  guilty  I 
promise  you  he'll  hang  inside  of  thirty  days." 

"And  drag  that  pore  little  thing  —  my  own 
first  cousin  —  into  a  cotehouse  to  be  shamed 

[270] 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAG 

before  a  lot  of  these  town  people  —  no!"  the 
voice  of  the  leader  rose  high.  "  Cotes  and  juries 
may  do  for  some  cases,  but  not  for  this.  That 
nigger  is  goin'  to  die  right  now!" 

He  glanced  back  at  his  followers;  they  were 
ready  —  and  more  than  ready.  On  his  right 
a  man  had  uncoiled  a  well-rope  and  was  tying 
a  slipknot  in  it.  He  tested  the  knot  with  both 
hands  and  his  teeth,  then  spat  to  free  his  lips 
of  the  gritty  dust  and  swung  the  rope  out  in 
long  doubled  coils  to  reeve  the  noose  in  it. 

"  Jedge  Priest,  for  the  last  time,  stand  aside!" 
warned  the  beaky-nosed  man.  His  voice  carried 
the  accent  of  finality  and  ultimate  decision  in 
it.  "You've  done  wore  our  patience  plum' 
out.  Boys,  if  you're  ready  come  on!" 

"One  minute!"  The  judge's  shrill  blare  of 
command  held  them  against  their  wills.  He 
was  lowering  his  umbrella.  "One  minute  and 
one  word  more!" 

Shuffling  then*  impatient  feet  they  watched 
him  backing  with  a  sort  of  ungainly  alertness 
over  from  right  to  left,  dragging  the  battered 
brass  ferrule  of  his  umbrella  after  him,  so  that 
it  made  a  line  from  one  curb  of  the  narrow  street 
to  the  other.  Doing  this  his  eyes  never  left 
their  startled  faces.  At  the  far  side  he  halted 
and  stepped  over  so  that  they  faced  this  line 
from  one  side  and  he  from  the  other.  The 
line  lay  between  them,  furrowed  in  the  deep 
dust. 

"Men,"  he  said,   and   his  lifelong  affecta- 

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tion  of  deliberately  ungrammatical  speech 
was  all  gone  from  him,  "I  have  said  to  you 
all  I  can  say.  I  will  now  kill  the  first  man 
who  puts  his  foot  across  that  line!" 

There  was  nothing  Homeric,  nothing  heroic 
about  it.  Even  the  line  he  had  made  in  the 
dust  waggled,  and  was  skewed  and  crooked 
like  the  trail  of  a  blind  worm.  His  old  figure 
was  still  as  grotesquely  plump  and  misshapen 
as  ever  —  the  broken  rib  of  his  umbrella  slanted 
askew  like  the  crippled  wing  of  a  fat  bat;  but 
the  pudgy  hand  that  brought  the  big  blue 
gun  out  of  the  right  pocket  of  the  alpaca  coat 
and  swung  it  out  and  up,  muzzle  lifted,  was 
steady  and  sure.  His  thumb  drew  the  hammer 
back  and  the  double  click  broke  on  the  amazed 
dumb  silence  that  had  fallen  like  two  clangs 
upon  an  anvil.  The  wrinkles  in  his  face  all 
set  into  fixed,  hard  lines. 

It  was  about  six  feet  from  them  to  where 
the  line  crossed  the  road.  Heavily,  slowly, 
diffidently,  as  though  their  feet  were  weighted 
with  the  leaden  boots  of  a  deep  sea  diver,  yet 
pushed  on  by  one  common  spirit,  they  moved 
a  foot  at  a  time  right  up  to  the  line.  And  there 
they  halted,  their  eyes  shifting  from  him  to 
the  dustmark  and  back  again,  rubbing  their 
shoulders  up  against  one  another  and  shuffling 
on  their  legs  like  cattle  startled  by  a  snake  in 
the  path. 

The  beaky-nosed  man  fumbled  in  the  breast 
of  his  unbuttoned  vest,  loosening  a  revolver  in 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

a  shoulder  holster.  A  twenty-year-old  boy, 
his  face  under  its  coating  of  dust  as  white  as 
flour  dough,  made  as  if  to  push  past  him  and 
break  across  the  line;  but  the  Massac  black 
smith  caught  him  and  plucked  him  back.  The 
leader,  still  fumbling  inside  his  vest,  addressed 
the  judge  hoarsely: 

"I  certainly  don't  want  to  have  to  kill  you, 
Jedge  Priest!"  he  said  doggedly. 

"I  don't  want  to  have  to  kill  anybody," 
answered  back  Judge  Priest;  "but,  as  God 
is  my  judge,  I'm  going  to  kill  the  first  one  of 
you  that  crosses  that  line.  If  it  was  my  own 
brother  I'd  kill  him.  I  don't  know  which  one 
of  you  will  kill  me,  but  I  know  which  one  I'm 
going  to  kill  —  the  first  man  across!" 

They  swayed  their  bodies  from  side  to  side  — 
not  forward  but  from  side  to  side.  They 
fingered  their  weapons,  and  some  of  them  swore 
in  a  disappointed,  irritated  sort  of  way.  This 
lasted  perhaps  half  a  minute,  perhaps  a  whole 
minute  —  anyway  it  lasted  for  some  such  meas 
urable  period  of  time  —  before  the  crumbling 
crust  of  their  resolution  was  broken  through. 
The  break  came  from  the  front  and  the  center. 
Their  leader,  the  lank,  tall  man  with  the  down- 
tilted  nose,  was  the  first  to  give  ground  visibly. 
He  turned  about  and  without  a  word  he  began 
pushing  a  passage  for  himself  through  the 
scrouging  pack  of  them.  Breathing  hard,  like 
men  who  had  run  a  hard  race,  they  followed 
him,  going  away  with  scarcely  a  backward 

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glance  toward  the  man  who  —  alone  —  had 
daunted  them.  They  followed  after  their  leader 
as  mules  follow  after  a  bell-mare,  wiping  their 
grimy  shirtsleeves  across  their  sweaty,  grimier 
faces  and  glancing  toward  each  other  with 
puzzled,  questioning  looks.  One  of  them  left 
a  heavy  can  of  coal-oil  behind  him  upright  in 
the  middle  of  the  road. 

The  old  judge  stood  still  until  they  were  a 
hundred  yards  away.  He  uncocked  the  revol 
ver  and  put  the  deadly  thing  back  in  his  pocket. 
Mechanically  he  raised  his  umbrella,  fumbling  a 
little  with  the  stubborn  catch,  and  tilted  it  over 
his  left  shoulder;  his  turtlelike  shadow  sprang 
out  again,  but  this  time  it  was  in  front  of  him. 
Very  slowly,  like  a  man  who  was  dead  tired, 
he  made  his  way  back  up  the  gravel  path 
toward  the  courthouse.  Jeff  magically  materi 
alized  himself  out  of  nowhere,  but  of  Dink 
Bynum  there  was  no  sign. 

"Is  them  w'ite  gen'l'men  gone?"  inquired 
Jeff,  his  eyes  popping  with  the  aftershock  of 
what  he  had  just  witnessed  —  had  witnessed 
from  under  the  courthouse  steps. 

"Yes,"  said  the  judge  wearily,  his  shoulders 
drooping.  "They're  gone." 

"Jedge,  ain't  they  liable  to  come  back?" 

"No;   they  won't  come  back." 

"You  kinder  skeered  'em  off,  jedge!"  An 
increasing  admiration  for  his  master  perco 
lated  sweetly  through  Jeff's  remarks  like  drip 
ping  honey. 

1274] 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

" No;  I  didn't  scare  'em  off  exactly,"  answered 
the  judge.  "They  are  not  the  kind  of  men  who 
can  be  scared  off.  I  merely  invoked  the  indi 
vidual  equation,  if  you  know  what  that  means?  " 

"  Yas,  suh  —  that's  whut  I  thought  it  wuz," 
assented  Jeff  eagerly  —  the  more  eagerly  be 
cause  he  had  no  idea  what  the  judge  meant. 

"Jeff,"  the  old  man  said,  "help  me  into  my 
office  and  get  me  a  dipper  of  drinkin'  water. 
I  reckin  maybe  I've  got  a  tech  of  the  sun." 
He  tottered  a  little  and  groped  outward  with 
one  hand. 

Guided  to  the  room,  he  sank  inertly  into 
his  chair  and  feebly  fought  off  the  blackness 
that  kept  blanking  his  sight.  Jeff  fanned  him 
with  his  hat. 

"I  guess  maybe  this  here  campaignin'  has 
been  too  much  for  me,"  said  the  judge  slowly. 
"It  must  be  the  weather.  I  reckin  from  now 
on,  Jeff,  I'll  have  to  set  back  sort  of  easy  and 
let  these  young  fellows  run  things." 

He  sat  there  until  the  couching  sun  brought 
long,  thin  shadows  and  a  false  promise  of  cool 
ness.  Dink  Bynum  returned  unobtrusively 
to  his  abandoned  post  of  duty;  the  crowds 
began  coming  back  from  the  Shady  Grove 
schoolhouse;  and  Jeff  found  time  to  slip  out 
and  confiscate  to  private  purposes  a  coal -oil 
can  that  still  stood  in  the  roadway.  He  knew 
of  a  market  for  such  commodities.  The  tele 
phone  bell  rang  and  the  old  judge,  raising  his 
sagged  frame  with  an  effort,  went  to  the  instru- 

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ment  and  took  down  the  receiver.  Long 
distance  lines  were  beginning  to  creep  out 
through  the  county  and  this  was  a  call  from 
Florence  Station,  seven  miles  away. 

"That  you,  Jedge  Priest?"  said  the  voice 
over  the  wire.  "This  is  Brack  Rodgers. 
I've  been  tryin'  to  raise  the  sheriff's  office, 
but  they  don't  seem  to  answer.  Well,  suh, 
they  got  the  nigger  what  done  that  devil- 
mint  over  at  the  Hampton  place  on  Massac 
this  evenin'.  Yes,  suh  —  about  two  hours 
ago.  He  was  a  nigger  named  Moore  that 
worked  on  the  adjoinin'  place  to  Hampton's 
—  a  tobacco  hand.  Nobody  suspected  him 
until  this  mornin',  when  some  of  the  other 
darkies  got  to  talkin'  round;  and  Buddy 
Quarles  heared  the  talk  and  went  after  him. 
The  nigger  he  fit  back  and  Buddy  had  to 
shoot  him  a  couple  of  times.  Oh,  yes,  he  died  — 
died  about  an  hour  afterward;  but  before  he 
died  he  owned  up  to  ever'thing.  I  reckin,  on 
the  whole,  he  got  off  light  by  bein'  killed. 
Which,  Jedge?  —  the  nigger  that's  there  in 
the  jail?  No,  suh;  he  didn't  have  nothin' 
a-tall  to  do  with  it  —  the  other  nigger  said 
so  while  he  was  dyin*.  I  jedge  it  was  what 
you  mout  call  another  case  of  mistaken  identity 
on  the  part  of  them  fool  hounds." 

To  be  sure  of  getting  the  full  party  vote 
out  and  to  save  the  cost  of  separate  staffs 
of  precinct  officers,  the  committee  ordained 

[276J 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

that  the  Democratic  primaries  should  be  held 
on  the  regular  election  day.  The  rains  of 
November  turned  the  dusts  of  August  to  high- 
edged  ridges  of  sticky  ooze.  Election  day 
came,  wet  and  windy  and  bleak.  Men  cutting 
across  the  yellow-brown  pastures,  on  their 
way  to  the  polling  places,  scared  up  flocks  of 
little  grayish  birds  that  tumbled  through  the 
air  like  wind-driven  leaves  and  dropped  again 
into  the  bushes  with  small  tweaking  sounds, 
like  the  slicing  together  of  shears;  and  as  if 
to  help  out  this  illusion,  they  showed  in  their 
tails  barrings  of  white  feathers  which  opened 
and  closed  like  scissor-b lades.  The  night  came 
on;  and  it  matched  the  day,  being  raw  and 
gusty,  with  clouds  like  clotted  whey  whipping 
over  and  round  a  full  moon  that  resembled 
a  churn-dasher  covered  with  yellow  clabber. 
Then  it  started  raining. 

The  returns  —  county,  state  and  national  — 
were  received  at  the  office  of  the  Daily  Even 
ing  News;  by  seven  o'clock  the  place  was 
packed.  Candidates  and  prominent  citizens 
were  crowded  inside  the  railing  that  marked 
off  the  business  department  and  the  editorial 
department;  while  outside  the  railing  and 
stretching  on  outdoors,  into  the  street,  the  male 
populace  of  the  town  herded  together  in  an 
almost  solid  mass.  Inside,  the  air  was  streaky 
with  layers  of  tobacco  smoke  and  rich  with 
the  various  smells  of  a  small  printing  shop 
on  a  damp  night.  Behind  a  glass  partition, 

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halfway  back  toward  the  end  of  the  build 
ing,  a  small  press  was  turning  out  the  weekly 
edition,  smacking  its  metal  lips  over  the  taste 
of  the  raw  ink.  Its  rumbling  clatter,  with  the 
slobbery  sputter  of  the  arclights  in  the  ceiling 
overhead,  made  an  accompaniment  to  the 
voices  of  the  crowd.  Election  night  was 
always  the  biggest  night  of  the  year  in  our 
town  —  bigger  than  Christmas  Eve  even. 

The  returns  at  large  came  by  telegraph, 
but  the  returns  of  the  primaries  were  sent  in 
from  the  various  precincts  of  town  and  county 
by  telephone;  or,  in  cases  where  there  was  no 
telephone,  they  were  brought  in  by  hard-riding 
messengers.  At  intervals,  from  the  telegraph 
office  two  doors  away,  a  boy  would  dash  out 
and  worm  his  way  in  through  the  eager  multi 
tude  that  packed  and  overflowed  the  narrow 
sidewalk;  and  through  a  wicket  he  would  fling 
crumpled  yellow  tissue  sheets  at  the  editor 
of  the  paper.  Then  the  editor  would  read 
out: 

"Seventeen  election  districts  in  the  Ninth 
Assembly  District  of  New  York  City  give 
Schwartz,  for  coroner 

"  Ah,  shuckin's !     Fooled  again ! " 

"St.  Louis  —  At  this  hour  —  nine-thirty  — 
the  Republicans  concede  that  the  entire  Demo 
cratic  state  ticket  has  won  by  substantial 
majorities " 

"Course  it  has!  What  did  they  expect 
Missouri  to  do?" 

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THE    MOB    FROM    MASSAG 

"Buffalo  —  Doran  —  for  mayor,  has  been 
elected.  The  rest  of  the  reform  ticket  is  — 

"Oh,  dad  blame  it!  Henry,  throw  that 
stuff  away  and  see  if  there  ain't  some  way  to 
get  something  definite  from  Lang's  Store  or 
Clark's  River  on  the  race  for  state  senator!" 

"Yes,  or  for  sheriff  —  that's  the  kind  of 
thing  we're  all  honin'  to  know." 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"  Here  you  are,  Mr.  Tompkins  —  complete 
returns  from  Gum  Spring  Precinct." 

"Now  —  quiet,  boys,  please,  so  we  can  all 
hear." 

It  was  on  this  night  that  there  befell  the 
tragedy  I  made  mention  of  in  the  first  para 
graph  of  this  chapter.  The  old  County  Ring 
was  smashing  up.  One  by  one  the  veterans 
were  going  under.  A  stripling  youth  not  two 
years  out  of  the  law  school  had  beaten  old 
Captain  Daniel  Boone  Calkins  for  representa 
tive;  and  old  Captain  Calkins  had  been  repre 
sentative  so  many  years  he  thought  the  job 
belonged  to  him.  Not  much  longer  was  the 
race  for  sheriff  in  doubt,  or  the  race  for  state 
senator.  Younger  men  snatched  both  jobs 
away  from  the  old  men  who  held  them. 

In  a  far  corner,  behind  a  barricade  of  backs 
and  shoulders,  sat  Major  J.  Q.  A.  Pickett,  a 
spare  and  knotty  old  man,  and  Judge  Priest, 
a  chubby  and  rounded  one.  Of  all  the  old 
men,  the  judge  seemingly  had  run  the  strongest 
race,  and  Major  Pickett,  who  had  been  county 

[2791 


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clerk  for  twenty  years  or  better,  had  run  close 
behind  him;  but  as  the  tally  grew  nearer  its 
completion  the  major's  chances  faded  to  nothing 
at  all  and  the  judge's  grew  dimmed  and  dimmer. 

"What  do  you  think,  judge?"  inquired 
Major  Pickett  for  perhaps  the  twentieth  time, 
clinging  forlornly  to  a  hope  that  was  as  good 
as  gone  already. 

"I  think,  major,  that  you  and  me  are  about 
to  be  notified  that  our  fellow  citizens  have 
returned  us  onc't  more  to  private  pursoots," 
said  the  old  judge,  and  there  was  a  game  smile 
on  his  face.  For,  so  far  back  that  he  hated  to 
remember  how  long  it  was,  he  had  held  his 
office  —  holding  it  as  a  trust  of  honor.  He  was 
too  old  actively  to  reenter  the  practice  of  law, 
and  he  had  saved  mighty  little  out  of  his  salary 
as  judge.  He  would  be  an  idle  man  and  a 
poor  one  —  perhaps  actually  needy;  and  the 
look  out  of  his  eyes  by  no  means  matched  the 
smile  on  his  face. 

"I  can't  seem  to  understand  it,"  said  the 
major,  crushed.  "Always  before,  the  old  boys 
could  be  depended  upon  to  turn  out  for  us." 

"Major,"  said  Judge  Priest,  letting  his 
wrinkled  old  hand  fall  on  the  major's  sound 
leg,  "did  you  ever  stop  to  think  that  there 
ain't  so  many  of  the  old  boys  left  any  more? 
There  used  to  be  a  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  members  of  the  camp  in  good  standin*. 
How  many  are  there  now?  And  how  many 
of  the  boys  did  we  bury  this  past  year?" 

[280] 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAC 

There  was  a  yell  from  up  front  and  a  scrooging 
forward  of  bodies. 

Editor  Tompkins  was  calling  off  something. 
The  returns  from  Clark's  River  and  from  Lang's 
Store  had  arrived  together.  He  read  out  the 
figures.  These  two  old  men,  sitting  side  by 
side,  at  the  back,  listened  with  hands  cupped 
behind  ears  that  were  growing  a  bit  faulty  of 
hearing.  They  heard. 

Major  J.  Q.  A.  Pickett  got  up  very  painfully 
and  very  slowly.  He  hooked  his  cane  up  under 
him  and  limped  out  unnoticed.  That  was  the 
night  when  the  major  established  his  right  of 
squatter  sovereignty  over  that  one  particular 
spot  at  the  far  end  of  Billy  Sherrill's  bar-rail. 

Thus  deserted,  the  judge  sat  alone  for  a 
minute.  The  bowl  of  his  corncob  pipe  had 
lost  its  spark  of  life  and  he  sucked  absently 
at  the  cold,  bitterish  stem.  Then  he,  too,  got 
on  his  feet  and  made  his  way  round  the  end 
of  a  cluttered-up  writing  desk  into  the  middle 
of  the  room.  It  took  an  effort,  but  he  bore 
himself  proudly  erect. 

"Henry,"  he  called  out  to  the  editor,  in 
his  homely  whine  —  "  Henry,  would  you  mind 
tellin'  me  —  jest  for  curiosity  —  how  my  race 
stands?" 

"Judge,"  said  the  editor,  "by  the  latest  count 
you  are  forty-eight  votes  behind  Mr.  Prentiss." 

"And  how  many  more  precincts  are  there 
to  hear  from,  my  son?" 

"Just  one  —  Massac!" 

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"Ah-hah!  Massac!"  said  the  old  judge. 
"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
the  company  generally,  "I  reckin  I'll  be  goin' 
on  home  and  turnin'  in.  This  is  the  latest 
I've  been  up  at  night  in  a  good  while.  I  won't 
wait  round  no  longer  —  I  reckin  everything  is 
the  same  as  settled.  I  wisht  one  of  you  boys 
would  convey  my  congratulations  to  Mr. 
Prentiss  and  tell  him  for  me  that " 

There  was  a  bustle  at  the  door  and  a  new 
comer  broke  in  through  the  press  of  men's 
bodies.  He  was  dripping  with  rain  and  spat 
tered  over  the  front  with  blobs  of  yellow  mud. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  drooping  mustache 
and  a  nose  that  beaked  at  the  tip  like  a  butcher 
bird's  mandible.  With  a  moist  splash  he 
slammed  a  pair  of  wet  saddlebags  down  on  the 
narrow  shelf  at  the  wicket  and,  fishing  with  his 
fingers  under  one  of  the  flaps,  he  produced  a 
scrawled  sheet  of  paper.  The  editor  of  the 
Daily  Evening  News  grabbed  it  from  him  and 
smoothed  it  out  and  ran  a  pencil  down  the 
irregular,  weaving  column  of  figures. 

"Complete  returns  on  all  the  county  races 
are  now  in,"  he  announced  loudly,  and  every 
face  turned  toward  him. 

"The  returns  from  Massac  Precinct  make 
no  changes  in  any  of  the  races " 

The  cheering  started  in  full  volume;  but 
the  editor  raised  his  hand  and  stilled  it. 

" make  no  change  in  any  of  the  races  — 

except  one." 

[2821 


THE    MOB     FROM    MASSAG 

All  sounds  died  and  the  crowd  froze  to  silence. 

"Massac  Precinct  has  eighty-four  registered 
Democratic  votes,"  went  on  Tompkins,  pro 
longing  the  suspense.  For  a  country  editor, 
he  had  the  dramatic  instinct  most  highly 
developed. 

"And  of  these  eighty -four,  all  eighty-four 
voted." 

"  Yes ;  go  on !     Go  on,  Henry ! " 

"And  all  eighty -four  of  'em  —  every  mother's 
son  of  'em  —  voted  for  the  Honorable  William 
Pitman  Priest,"  finished  Tompkins.  "Judge, 
you  win  by  - 

Really,  that  sentence  was  not  finished  until 
Editor  Tompkins  got  his  next  day's  paper  out. 
The  old  judge  felt  blindly  for  a  chair,  sat  down 
and  put  his  face  in  his  two  hands.  Eight  or 
ten  old  men  pressed  in  toward  him  from  all 
directions;  and,  huddling  about  him,  they 
raised  their  several  cracked  and  quavery  voices 
in  a  yell  that  ripped  its  way  up  and  through 
and  above  and  beyond  the  mixed  and  indis 
criminate  whoopings  of  the  crowd. 

This  yell,  which  is  shrill  and  very  penetrating, 
has  been  described  in  print  technically  as  the 
Rebel  yell. 


[283J 


IX 

A  DOGGED  UNDER  DOG 


ONE  or  two  nights  a  week  my  uncle 
used  to  take  me  with  him  when  he 
went  to  spend  the  evening  with  old 
Judge  Priest.  There  were  pretty  sure 
to  be  a  hah*  dozen  or  more  gray  heads  there; 
and  if  it  were  good  out-door  weather,  they 
would  sit  in  a  row  on  the  wide  low  veranda, 
smoking  their  pipes  and  their  cigars;  and  of 
these  the  cigars  kept  off  the  mosquitos  even 
better  than  the  pipes  did,  our  country  being 
notorious,  then,  as  now,  for  the  excellence  of 
its  domestic  red  liquor  and  the  amazing  potency 
of  its  domestic  black  cigars.  Every  little 
while,  conceding  the  night  to  be  hot,  Judge 
Priest's  Jeff  would  come  bringing  a  tray  with 
drinks  —  toddies  or  else  mint  juleps,  that  were 
as  fragrant  as  the  perfumed  fountains  of  a  fairy 
tale  and  crowned  with  bristling  sprays  of  the 
gracious  herbage.  And  they  would  sit  and 
smoke  and  talk,  and  I  would  perch  on  the  top 
step  of  the  porch,  hugging  my  bare  knees 
together  and  listening. 

[284] 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

It  was  on  just  such  a  night  as  this  that  I 
heard  the  story  of  Singin'  Sandy  Riggs,  the 
Under  Dog.  I  think  it  must  have  been  in 
July  —  or  maybe  it  was  August.  To  the 
northward  the  sheet  lightning  played  back 
and  forth  like  a  great  winking  lens,  burning 
the  day  heat  out  of  the  air  and  from  the  dried 
up  bed  of  the  creek,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
came  the  notes  of  big  bassooning  bull  frogs, 
baying  at  the  night.  Every  now  and  then  a 
black  bird  or  a  tree  martin  in  the  maple  over 
head  would  have  a  bad  dream  and  talk  out 
in  its  sleep;  and  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of 
birds  roosting  up  there  would  rouse  and  utter 
querulous,  drowsy  bird-sounds,  and  bestir  them 
selves  until  the  whole  top  of  the  tree  rustled 
and  moved  as  though  from  a  sudden  breeze. 
In  lulls  of  the  talk,  thin-shredded  snatches  of 
singing  was  borne  to  us  from  the  little  church 
beyond  the  old  Enders  orchard  where  the 
negroes  were  holding  one  of  their  frequent 
revivals. 

It  was  worth  any  boy's  while  to  listen  to  the 
company  that  assembled  on  Judge  Priest's  front 
porch.  For  one,  Squire  Rufus  Buckley  was 
pretty  certain  to  be  there.  Possibly  by  reason 
of  his  holding  a  judicial  office  and  possibly 
because  he  was  of  a  conservative  habit  of  mind, 
Squire  Buckley  was  never  known  to  give  a 
direct  answer  to  any  question.  For  their  own 
amusement,  people  used  to  try  him.  Catching 
him  on  a  flawless  morning,  someone  would 

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remark  in  a  tone  of  questioning  that  it  was  a 
fine  day. 

"Well  now,"  the  Squire  would  say,  "It  tis 
and  it  taint.  It's  clear  now  but  you  can't 
never  tell  when  it'll  cloud  up." 

He  owned  a  little  grocery  store  out  in  the 
edge  of  town  and  had  his  magistrate's  office  in 
a  back  room  behind  it.  On  a  crowded  Satur 
day  when  the  country  rigs  were  standing  three 
deep  outside  and  the  two  clerks  were  flying 
about  measuring  and  weighing  and  counting 
up  and  drawing  off,  a  waiting  customer  might 
be  moved  to  say : 

"Business  pretty  good,  ain't  it  Squire?" 

"It's  good,"  the  Squire  would  say,  licking 
off  the  corn-cob  stopper  of  a  molasses  jug  and 
driving  it  with  a  sticky  plop  into  its  appointed 
orifice,  "And  then  agin  it's  bad.  Some  things 
air  sellin'  off  very  well  and  some  things  ain't 
hardly  sellin'  off  a'tall." 

The  Squire  was  no  great  shakes  of  a  talker, 
but  as  a  listener  he  was  magnificent.  He  would 
sit  silently  hour  after  hour  with  his  hands  laced 
over  his  paunch,  only  occasionally  spitting 
over  the  banisters  with  a  strident  tearing 
sound. 

Nor  was  the  assemblage  complete  without 
Captain  Shelby  Woodward.  Captain  Shelby 
Woodward's  specialty  in  conversation  was  the 
Big  War.  From  him  I  first  heard  the  story  of 
how  Lieutenant  Gracey  of  the  County  Battery 
floated  down  the  river  on  a  saw  log  and  single 

[2861 


A    DOGGED     UNDER     DOG 

handed,  captured  the  Yankee  gunboat  and  its 
sleepy-headed  crew.  From  him  I  learned  the 
why  and  wherefore  of  how  our  town  although 
located  right  on  the  border  of  North  and  South, 
came  in  '61  to  be  called  the  Little  Charleston, 
and  from  him  also  I  got  the  tale  of  that  lost 
legion  of  Illinois  men,  a  full  battalion  of  them, 
who  crossing  out  of  their  own  State  by  stealth 
were  joyously  welcomed  into  ours,  and  were 
mustered  into  the  service  and  thereafter  for 
four  years  fought  their  own  kinspeople  and 
neighbors  —  the  only  organized  command,  so 
Captain  Shelby  Woodward  said,  that  came  to 
the  army  from  the  outside.  Frequently  he 
used  to  tell  about  Miss  Em.  Garrett,  who  when 
Grant  came  up  from  Cairo  on  his  gunboats, 
alone  remembered  what  all  the  rest  of  the 
frightened  town  forgot  —  that  the  silken  flag 
which  the  women  had  made  with  loving  hands, 
was  still  floating  from  its  flag  pole  in  front  of 
the  engine  house;  and  she  drove  her  old  rock- 
away  down  to  the  engine  house  and  made  her 
little  negro  house  boy  shin  up  the  pole  and  bring 
the  flag  down  to  her,  he  greatly  fearing  the 
shells  from  the  gunboats  that  whistled  past 
his  head,  but  fearing  much  more  his  mistress, 
standing  down  below  and  lashing  up  at  his 
bare  legs  with  her  buggy  whip. 

"So  then,"  Captain  Woodward  would  go  on, 
"she  put  the  flag  under  her  dress  and  drove 
on  home.  But  some  Union  sympathizer  told 
on  her  when  the  troops  landed  and  a  crowd 

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of  them  broke  away  and  went  out  to  her  place 
and  called  on  her  to  give  it  up.  She  was  all 
alone  except  for  the  darkeys,  but  she  wasn't 
scared,  that  old  woman.  They  sassed  her  and 
she  sassed  'em  back,  and  they  were  swearing 
they'd  burn  the  house  down  over  her  head, 
and  she  was  daring  'em  to  do  it,  when  an  officer 
came  up  and  drove  'em  off.  And  afterwards 
when  the  warehouses  and  the  churches  and 
the  Young  Ladies'  Seminary  were  chuck  full 
of  sick  and  wounded,  brought  down  from 
Donaldson  and  Shiloh,  she  turned  in  and 
nursed  them  all  alike,  not  caring  which  side 
they'd  fought  on.  And  so,  some  of  the  very 
men  that  had  threatened  her,  used  to  salute 
when  she  passed  them  on  the  street. 

"And  sir,  she  wore  that  flag  under  her  skirts 
for  four  years,  and  she  kept  it  always  and  when 
she  died  it  was  her  shroud.  You  remember, 
Billy,  —  you  were  one  of  the  pall  bearers?" 
he  would  say,  turning  to  Judge  Priest. 

And  Judge  Priest  would  say  he  remembered 
mighty  well  and  the  talk  would  go  swinging 
back  and  forth,  but  generally  back,  being  con 
cerned  mainly  with  people  that  were  dead  and 
things  that  were  done  years  and  years  before 
I  was  born. 

Major  J.  Q.  A.  Pickett  was  apt  to  be  of  the 
company,  dapper  and  as  jaunty  as  his  game  leg 
would  let  him  be,  always  in  black  with  a  white 
tube  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  The  Major  was 
a  born  boulevardier  without  a  boulevard,  a 

[288] 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

natural  man  about  town  without  the  right 
kind  of  a  town  to  be  about  in,  and  a  clubman 
by  instinct,  yet  with  no  club  except  the  awn 
ings  under  Soule's  drug  store,  and  the  screen 
ing  of  dishrag  vines  and  balsam  apples  on 
Priest's  front  porch.  Also  in  a  far  corner  some 
where,  little  Mr.  Herman  Felsburg  of  Fels- 
burg  Brothers,  our  leading  clothiers,  might 
often  be  found.  Mr.  Felsburg's  twisted  sen 
tences  used  to  tickle  me.  I  was  nearly  grown 
before  I  learned,  by  chance,  what  Mr.  Felsburg 
himself  never  mentioned  —  that  he,  a  newly 
landed  immigrant,  enlisted  at  the  first  call 
and  had  fought  in  half  a  dozen  hard  battles 
before  he  properly  knew  the  English  for  the 
commands  of  his  captain.  But  my  favorite 
story-teller  of  them  all,  was  old  Cap'n  Jasper 
Lawson,  and  he  was  old  —  old  even  to  these 
other  old  men,  older  by  a  full  twenty  years  than 
the  oldest  of  them,  a  patriarch  of  the  early 
times,  a  Forty-niner,  and  a  veteran  of  two 
wars  and  an  Indian  Campaign.  For  me  he 
linked  the  faded  past  to  the  present  and 
made  it  glow  again  in  vivid  colors.  Wherever 
he  was,  was  an  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment 
for  me. 

He  lives  as  a  memory  now  in  the  town  — 
his  lean  shaven  jowl,  and  his  high  heeled  boots 
and  the  crimson  blanket  that  he  wore  winters, 
draped  over  his  shoulders  and  held  at  the 
throat  with  a  pin  made  of  a  big  crusty  nugget 
of  virgin  California  gold.  Wearing  this  blanket 

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was  no  theatrical  affectation  of  Cap'n  Jasper's 
—  it  was  a  part  of  him;  he  was  raised  in  the 
days  when  men,  white  and  red  both,  wore 
blankets  for  overcoats.  He  could  remember 
when  the  Chickasaws  still  held  our  end  of  the 
State  and  General  Jackson  and  Governor 
Shelby  came  down  and  bought  it  away  from 
them  and  so  gave  to  it  its  name  of  The  Purchase. 
He  could  remember  plenty  of  things  like  that  — 
and  what  was  better,  could  tell  them  so  that 
you  could  see  before  your  eyes  the  burnished 
backs  of  the  naked  bucks  sitting  in  solemn 
conclave  and  those  two  old  Indian  fighters 
chaffering  with  them  for  their  tribal  lands.  He 
was  tall  and  sparse  and  straight  like  one  of 
those  old  hillside  pines,  that  I  have  seen  since 
growing  on  the  red  clay  slopes  of  the  cotton 
country  south  of  us;  and  he  stayed  so  until 
he  died,  which  was  when  he  was  away  up  in  the 
nineties.  It  was  Cap'n  Jasper  this  night  who 
told  the  story  of  Singin'  Sandy  Riggs. 

Somehow  or  other,  the  talk  had  flowed  and 
eddied  by  winding  ways  to  the  subject  of 
cowardice,  and  Judge  Priest  had  said  that 
every  brave  man  was  a  coward  and  every 
coward  was  a  brave  man  —  it  all  depended  on 
the  time  and  the  place  —  and  this  had  moved 
Captain  Shelby  Woodward  to  repeat  one  of 
his  staple  chronicles  —  when  the  occasion  suited 
he  always  told  it.  It  concerned  that  epic  last 
year  of  the  Orphan  Brigade  —  his  brigade  he 
always  called  it,  as  though  he'd  owned  it. 

[2901 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

"More  than  five  thousand  of  us  in  that 
brigade  of  mine,  when  we  went  out  in  '61,"  he 
said,  "and  not  quite  twelve  hundred  of  us 
left  on  that  morning  hi  May  of  '64  when 
we  marched  out  of  Dalton  —  Joe  Johnston's 
rear  guard,  holding  Sherman  back.  Holding 
him  back?  Hah,  feeding  ourselves  to  him; 
that  was  it,  sir  —  just  feeding  ourselves  to  him 
a  bite  at  a  time,  so  as  to  give  the  rest  of  the 
army  a  chance  for  its  life.  And  what  does 
that  man  Shaler  say  —  what  does  he  say 
and  prove  it  by  the  figures?  One  hundred  and 
twenty  solid  days  of  fighting  and  marching  and 
retreating  —  one  hundred  and  forty  days  that 
were  like  a  hot  red  slice  carved  out  of  hell  — 
fighting  every  day  and  mighty  near  every  hour, 
hanging  on  Sherman's  flanks  and  stinging  at 
him  like  gadflies  and  being  wiped  out  and 
swallowed  in  mouthfuls.  A  total,  sir,  of  more 
than  1800  deadly  or  disabling  wounds  for  us 
in  those  hundred  and  twenty  days,  or  more  than 
a  wound  apiece  if  every  man  had  been  wounded, 
and  there  were  less  than  fifty  of  the  boys  that 
weren't  wounded  at  that.  And  in  September, 
at  the  end  of  those  hundred  and  twenty  days, 
just  240  of  us  left  out  of  what  had  been  five 
thousand  three  years  before  —  240  out  of  what 
had  been  nearly  twelve  hundred  in  May  —  240 
out  of  a  whole  brigade,  infantry,  and  artillery 
—  but  still  fighting  and  still  ready  to  keep 
right  on  fighting.  Those  are  Shaler 's  figures, 
and  he  was  a  Federal  officer  himself,  and 

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a  most  gallant  gentleman.  And  it  is  true,  sir 
—  every  word  of  it  is  true. 

"Now  was  that  bravery?  Or  was  it  just 
pure  doggedness?  And  when  you  come  right 
down  to  it,  what  is  the  difference  between  the 
two?  This  one  thing  I  do  know,  though  — 
if  it  was  bravery  we  were  no  braver  than  the  men 
who  fought  us  and  chased  us  and  killed  us  off 
on  that  campaign  to  Atlanta  and  then  on  down 
to  the  Sea  and  if  it  was  doggedness,  they'd 
have  been  just  as  dogged  as  we  were  with  the 
conditions  reversed  —  them  losing  and  us  win 
ning.  When  you're  the  underdog  you  just 
naturally  have  to  fight  —  there's  nothing  else 
for  you  to  do  —  isn't  that  true  in  your 
experience,  Billy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Judge  Priest,  "that's  true  as 
Gospel  Writ.  After  all,  boys,"  he  added,  "I 
reckin  the  bravest  man  that  lives  is  the  coward 
that  wants  to  run  and  yit  don't  do  it.  And 
anyway,  when  all's  said  and  done,  the  bravest 
fighters  in  every  war  have  always  been  the 
women  and  not  the  men.  I  know  'twas  so  in 
that  war  of  ours  —  the  men  could  go  and  git 
what  joy  there  was  out  of  the  fightin';  it  was 
the  women  that  stayed  behind  and  suffered 
and  waited  and  prayed.  Boys,  if  you've  all 
got  a  taste  of  your  toddies  left,  s'posen  we  drink 
to  our  women  before  Jeff  brings  you  your  fresh 
glasses." 

They  drank  with  those  little  clucking  sipping 
sounds  that  old  men  make  when  they  drink, 

[292] 


A    DOGGED     UNDER    DOG 

and  for  a  bit  there  was  a  silence.  The  shifting 
shuttle  play  of  the  lightning  made  stage  effects 
in  yellow  and  black  against  the  back-drop  of 
the  sky.  From  the  shadows  of  the  dishrag  vine 
where  he  sat  in  a  hickory  arm  chair,  his  pipe 
bowl  making  a  glowing  red  smudge  in  the  dark 
ness,  old  Cap'n  Jasper  Lawson  spoke. 

"Speaking  of  under  dogs  and  things,  I  reckon 
none  of  you  young  fellows"  —  he  chuckled  a 
little  down  in  his  throat  —  "can  remember 
when  this  wasn't  a  gun-toting  country  down 
here?  But  I  do. 

"It  was  before  your  day,  but  I  remember 
it.  First  off,  there  was  the  time  when  my 
daddy  and  the  granddaddies  of  some  of  you 
gentlemen  came  out  over  the  Wilderness  trail 
with  a  squirrel  rifle  in  one  hand  and  an  ax  in 
the  other,  swapping  shots  with  the  Indians 
every  step  of  the  way.  And  that  was  the 
beginning  of  everything  here.  Then,  years 
later  on,  the  feuds  started,  up  in  the  mountains 
—  although  I'm  not  denying  but  we  had  our 
share  of  them  down  here  too  —  and  some  broken 
down  aristocrats  moved  out  from  Virginia  and 
Maryland  and  brought  the  Code  and  a  few 
pairs  of  those  old  long  barreled  dueling  pis 
tols  along  with  them,  which  was  really  the 
only  baggage  some  of  them  had;  and  awhile 
after  that  the  Big  War  came  on;  and  so  what 
with  one  thing  and  another,  men  took  to  tot 
ing  guns  regularly  —  a  mighty  bad  habit  too, 
and  one  which  we've  never  been  entirely  cured 

[293] 


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of  yet,  as  Billy's  next  court  docket  will  show, 
eh,  Billy?" 

Judge  Priest  made  an  inarticulate  sound  of 
regretful  assent  and  Squire  Buckley  spat  out 
into  the  darkness  with  a  long-drawn  syrupy 
swish. 

"But  in  between,  back  in  the  twenties  and 
the  thirties,  there  was  a  period  when  gun  toting 
wasn't  so  highly  popular.  Maybe  it  was 
because  pistols  hadn't  got  common  yet  and 
squirrel  rifles  were  too  heavy  to  tote  around, 
and  maybe  it  was  because  people  were  just 
tired  of  trouble.  I  won't  pretend  to  say  exactly 
what  the  cause  of  it  was,  but  so  it  was  —  men 
settled  their  differences  with  their  fists  and 
their  feet  —  with  their  teeth  too,  sometimes. 
And  if  there  were  more  gouged  eyes  and  more 
teeth  knocked  out,  there  were  fewer  widows 
and  not  so  many  orphans  either. 

"I  notice  some  of  you  younger  fellows  have 
taken  here  lately  to  calling  this  town  a  city, 
but  when  I  first  came  here,  it  wasn't  even  a 
town  —  just  an  overgrown  wood  landing,  in 
the  river  bottom,  with  the  shacks  and  houses 
stuck  up  on  piles  to  keep  'em  out  of  the  river 
mud.  There  were  still  Indians  a  plenty  too  — 
Chickasaws  and  Creeks  and  some  Shawnees  — 
and  some  white  folks  who  were  mighty  near  as 
ignorant  as  the  Indians.  Why  it  hadn't  been 
but  a  few  years  before  —  three  or  four  at  most, 
I  reckon  —  since  they'd  tried  to  burn  the 
widow  woman  Simmons  as  a  witch.  As  boys, 

[2941 


A     DOGGED     UNDER    DOG 

some  of  you  must  have  heard  tell  of  old  Marm 
Simmons.  Well,  I  can  remember  her  and  that's 
better.  She  lived  alone  with  an  old  black  cat 
for  company,  and  she  was  poor  and  friendless 
and  sort  of  peculiar  in  her  ways  and  that 
started  it.  And  one  spring,  when  the  high- 
water  went  down,  the  children  got  sickly  and 
begun  dying  off  of  this  here  spotted  fever. 
And  somebody  started  the  tale  that  old  Marm 
Simmons  was  witching  'em  to  make  'em  die  — 
that  she'd  look  at  a  child  and  then  the  child 
would  take  down  sick  and  die.  It  was  Salem, 
Massachusetts,  moved  up  a  couple  of  hundred 
years,  but  they  believed  it  —  some  of  them 
did.  And  one  night  a  dozen  men  went  to  her 
cabin  and  dragged  her  out  along  with  her  cat 
—  both  of  them  spitting  and  yowling  and 
scratching  like  blood  sisters  —  and  they  had 
her  flung  up  onto  a  burning  brush  pile  and  her 
apron  strings  had  burnt  in  two  when  three  or 
four  men  who  were  still  sane  came  running  up 
and  broke  in  and  kicked  the  fire  apart  and 
saved  her.  But  her  old  cat  went  tearing  off 
through  the  woods  like  a  Jack-mer-lantern 
with  his  fur  all  afire." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  suck  deliberately 
at  his  pipe,  and  I  sat  and  thought  about  old 
Marm  Simmons  and  her  blazing  torn  cat,  and 
was  glad  clear  down  to  my  wriggling  toes  that 
I  didn't  have  to  go  home  alone.  In  a  minute 
or  so  Cap'n  Jasper  was  droning  on  again: 

"So  you  can  tell  by  that,  that  this  here  city 

[295] 


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of  yours  was  a  pretty  tolerable  rough  place  in 
its  infancy,  and  full  of  rough  people  as  most  all 
new  settlements  are.  You've  got  to  remember 
that  this  was  the  frontier  in  those  days.  But 
the  roughest  of  them  all,  as  I  recollect,  rougher 
even  than  the  keel-boaters  and  the  trappers 
and  even  the  Indian  traders  —  was  Harve 
Allen.  He  set  himself  up  to  be  the  bully  of  this 
river  country. 

"Well,  he  was.  He  was  more  than  six  feet 
tall  and  built  like  a  catamount,  and  all  the 
whiskey  he'd  drunk  —  you  could  get  a  gallon 
then  for  what  a  dram'll  cost  you  now  —  hadn't 
burnt  him  out  yet.  He  fought  seemingly  just 
for  the  pure  love  of  fighting.  Come  a  muster 
or  a  barn  raising  or  an  election  or  anything, 
Harve  Allen  fought  somebody  —  and  licked 
him.  Before  he  had  been  here  a  year  he  had 
beat  up  half  the  men  in  this  settlement,  and 
the  other  half  were  pretty  careful  to  leave  him 
alone,  even  those  that  weren't  afraid  of  him. 
He  never  used  anything  though  except  his 
fists,  and  his  feet  and  his  teeth  —  he  never 
needed  anything  else.  So  far  as  was  known, 
he'd  never  been  licked  in  his  whole  life. 

"You  see,  there  was  nobody  to  stop  him. 
The  sheriff  lived  away  down  at  the  other  end 
of  the  county,  and  the  county  was  five  times 
as  big  as  it  is  now.  There  were  some  town 
trustees  —  three  of  them  —  and  they'd  ap 
pointed  a  long,  gangling,  jimpy-jawed  fellow 
named  Catlett  to  be  the  first  town  constable, 

[296] 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

but  even  half  grown  boys  laughed  at  Catlett, 
let  alone  Harve  Allen.  Harve  would  just  look 
at  Catlett  sort  of  contemptously  and  Catlett 
would  slide  off  backwards  like  a  crawfish.  And 
when  Harve  got  a  few  drams  aboard  and  began 
churning  up  his  war  medicine,  Catlett  would 
hurry  right  straight  home,  and  be  taken  down 
sick  in  bed  and  stay  there  until  Harve  had  eased 
himself,  beating  up  people. 

"So  Harve  Allen  ran  a  wood  yard  for  the 
river  people  and  had  things  pretty  much  his 
own  way.  Mainly  people  gave  him  the  whole 
road.  There  was  a  story  out  that  he'd  be 
longed  to  the  Ford's  Ferry  gang  before  they 
broke  up  the  gang.  That's  a  yarn  I'll  have  to 
tell  this  boy  here  some  of  these  days  when  I 
get  the  time  —  how  they  caught  the  gang 
hiding  in  Cave-In-Rock  and  shot  some  of  them 
and  drowned  the  rest,  all  but  the  two  head 
devils  —  Big  Harp  and  Little  Harp  who  were 
brothers  —  and  how  they  got  back  across  the 
river  in  a  dug  out  and  were  run  down  with 
dogs  and  killed  too;  and  the  men  that  killed 
them  cut  off  then*  heads  and  salted  them  and 
packed  them  in  a  piggin  of  brine  and  sent  the 
piggin  by  a  man  on  horseback  up  to  Frankfort 
to  collect  the  reward.  Yes,  that's  what  they 
did,  and  it  makes  a  tale  that  ought  to  be  written 
out  some  time." 

That  was  old  Cap'n  Jasper's  way.  His 
mind  was  laden  like  Aladdin's  sumter-mule, 
with  treasures  uncountable,  and  often  he  would 

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drop  some  such  glittering  jewel  as  this  and 
leave  it  and  go  on.  I  mind  now  how  many 
times  he  started  to  tell  me  the  full  story  of  the 
two  dissolute  Virginians,  nephews  of  one  of  the 
first  Presidents,  who  hi  a  fit  of  drunken  temper 
killed  then*  slave  boy  George,  on  the  very  night 
that  the  great  Earthquake  of  1811  came  — 
and  taking  the  agues  and  the  crackings  of 
the  earth  for  a  judgment  of  God  upon  their 
heads,  went  half  mad  with  terror  and  ran  to 
give  themselves  up.  But  I  never  did  find  out, 
and  I  don't  know  yet  what  happened  to  them 
after  that.  Nor  was  I  ever  to  hear  from  Cap'n 
Jasper  the  fuller  and  gory  details  of  the  timely 
taking-off  of  Big  Harp  and  Little  Harp.  He 
just  gave  me  this  one  taste  of  the  delightful 
horror  of  it  and  went  on. 

"Some  of  them  said  that  Harve  Allen  had 
belonged  to  the  Ford's  Ferry  gang  and  that 
he'd  got  away  when  the  others  were  trapped. 
For  a  fact  he  did  come  down  the  river  right 
after  the  massacre  at  the  cave,  and  maybe 
that  was  how  the  story  started.  But  as  for 
myself,  I  never  believed  that  part  of  it  at  all. 
Spite  of  his  meanness,  Harve  Allen  wasn't  the 
murdering  kind  and  it  must  have  taken  a 
mighty  seasoned  murderer  to  keep  steady 
company  with  Big  Harp  and  Little  Harp. 

"But  he  looked  mean  enough  for  anything  — 
just  the  way  he  would  look  at  a  man  won  half 
his  fights  for  him.  It's  rising  of  sixty  years 
since  I  saw  him,  but  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

the  picture  of  him  comes  back  to  me  plain  as 
a  painted  portrait  on  a  wall.  I  can  see  him 
now,  rising  of  six  feet-three,  as  I  told  you,  and 
long-legged  and  raw-boned.  He  didn't  have 
any  beard  on  his  face  —  he'd  pulled  it  out 
the  same  as  the  Indian  bucks  used  to  do,  only 
they'd  use  mussel  shells,  and  he  used  tweezers, 
but  there  were  a  few  hairs  left  in  his  chin  that 
were  black  and  stiff  and  stood  out  like  the 
bristles  on  a  hog's  jowl.  And  his  under  lip 
lolled  down  as  though  it'd  been  sagged  out 
of  plumb  by  the  weight  of  all  the  cuss-words 
that  Harve  had  sworn  in  his  time,  and  his  eyes 
were  as  cold  and  mean  as  a  catfish's  eyes.  He 
used  to  wear  an  old  deer  skin  hunting  vest, 
and  it  was  gormed  and  smeared  with  grease 
until  it  was  as  slick  as  an  otter-slide;  and  most 
of  the  time  he  went  bare  foot.  The  bottoms 
of  his  feet  were  like  horn. 

"That  was  the  way  he  looked  the  day  he 
licked  Singin'  Sandy  the  first  time  —  and  like 
wise  the  way  he  looked  all  the  other  times  too, 
for  the  matter  of  that.  But  the  first  time  was 
the  day  they  hanged  Tallow  Dave,  the  hah* 
breed,  for  killing  the  little  Cartright  girl.  It 
was  the  first  hanging  we  ever  had  in  this 
country  —  the  first  legal  hanging  I  mean  — 
and  from  all  over  the  county,  up  and  down  the 
river,  and  from  away  back  in  the  oak  barrens, 
the  people  came  to  see  it.  They  came  afoot 
and  ahorseback,  the  men  bringing  their  rifles 
and  even  old  swords  and  old  war  hatchets 

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with  them,  with  the  women  and  children  riding 
on  behind  them.  It  made  the  biggest  crowd 
that'd  ever  been  here  up  to  then.  Away  down 
by  the  willows  stood  the  old  white  house  that 
washed  away  in  the  rise  of  '54,  where  old 
Madame  La  Farge,  the  old  French  woman, 
used  to  gamble  with  the  steamboat  captains, 
and  up  where  the  Market  Square  is  now,  was 
the  jail,  which  was  built  of  logs;  and  in  between 
stretched  a  row  of  houses  and  cabins,  mainly 
of  logs  too,  all  facing  the  river.  There  was  a 
road  in  front,  running  along  the  top  of  the 
bank,  and  in  summer  it  was  knee  deep  in  dust, 
fit  to  choke  a  horse,  and  in  winter  it  was  just 
one  slough  of  mud  that  caked  and  balled  on 
your  feet  until  it  would  pull  your  shoes  off. 
I've  seen  teams  mired  down  many  a  time  there, 
right  where  the  Richland  House  is  now.  But 
on  this  day  the  mud  was  no  more  than  shoe- 
throat  deep,  which  nobody  minded;  and  the 
whole  river  front  was  just  crawling  with  people 
and  horses. 

"They  brought  Tallow  Dave  out  of  the  jail 
with  his  arms  tied  back,  and  put  him  in  a 
wagon,  him  sitting  on  his  coffin,  and  drove 
him  under  a  tree  and  noosed  him  round  the 
neck,  and  then  the  wagon  pulled  out  and  left 
him  swinging  and  kicking  there  with  the  people 
scrooging  up  so  close  to  him  they  almost 
touched  his  legs.  I  was  there  where  I  could 
see  it  all,  and  that's  another  thing  in  my  life 
I'm  never  going  to  forget.  It  was  pretty  soon 

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A     DOGGED     UNDER     DOG 

after  they'd  cut  him  down  that  Harve  Allen 
ran  across  Singin'  Sandy.  This  Sandy  Riggs 
was  a  little  stumpy  man  with  sandy  hair  and 
big  gray  eyes  that  would  put  you  in  mind  of  a 
couple  of  these  here  mossy  agates,  and  he  was 
as  freckled  as  a  turkey  egg,  in  the  face.  He 
hadn't  been  here  very  long  and  people  had 
just  begun  calling  him  Singin'  Sandy  on  account 
of  him  going  along  always  humming  a  little  tune 
without  any  words  to  it  and  really  not  much 
tune,  more  like  a  big  blue  bottle  fly  droning 
than  anything  else.  He  lived  in  a  little  clear 
ing  that  he'd  made  about  three  miles  out,  back 
of  the  Grundy  Hill,  where  that  new  summer 
park,  as  they  call  it,  stands  now.  But  then 
it  was  all  deep  timber  —  oak  barrens  in  the 
high  ground  and  cypress  slashes  in  the  low  — 
with  a  trail  where  the  gravel  road  runs,  and 
the  timber  was  full  of  razor  back  hogs  stropping 
themselves  against  the  tree  boles  and  up  above 
there  were  squirrels  as  thick  as  these  English 
sparrows  are  today.  He  had  a  cub  of  a  boy 
that  looked  just  like  him,  freckles  and  sandy 
head  and  all;  and  this  boy  —  he  was  about 
fourteen,  I  reckon  —  had  come  in  with  him 
on  this  day  of  the  Tallow  Dave  hanging. 

"Well,  some  way  or  other,  Singin'  Sandy 
gave  offense  to  Harve  Allen  —  which  as  I  have 
told  you,  was  no  hard  thing  to  do  —  bumped 
into  him  by  accident  maybe  or  didn't  get  out 
of  the  road  brisk  enough  to  suit  Harve.  And 
Harve  without  a  word,  up  and  hauled  off  and 

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smacked  him  down  as  flat  as  a  flinder.  He  laid 
there  on  the  ground  a  minute,  sort  of  stunned, 
and  then  up  he  got  and  surprised  everybody 
by  making  a  rush  for  Harve.  He  mixed  it 
with  him  but  it  was  too  onesided  to  be  much 
fun,  even  for  those  who'd  had  the  same  dose 
themselves  and  so  enjoyed  seeing  Harve  taking 
it  out  of  somebody  else's  hide.  In  a  second 
Harve  had  him  tripped  and  thrown  and  was 
down  on  him  bashing  in  his  face  for  him.  At 
that,  Singin'  Sandy's  cub  of  a  boy  ran  in  and 
tried  to  pull  Harve  off  his  dad,  and  Harve 
stopped  pounding  Sandy  just  long  enough  to 
rear  up  and  fetch  the  cub  a  back  handed  lick 
with  the  broad  of  his  hand  that  landed  the 
chap  ten  feet  away.  The  cub  bounced  right 
up  and  made  as  if  to  come  back  and  try  it 
again,  but  some  men  grabbed  him  and  held 
him,  riot  wanting  to  see  such  a  little  shaver 
hurt.  The  boy  was  sniveling  too,  but  I  took 
notice  it  wasn't  a  scared  snivel  —  it  was  a  mad 
snivel,  if  you  all  know  what  I  mean.  They 
held  him,  a  couple  of  them,  until  it  was  over. 
"That  wasn't  long  —  it  was  over  in  a  minute 
or  two.  Harve  Allen  got  up  and  stood  off 
grinning,  just  as  he  always  grinned  when  he'd 
mauled  somebody  to  his  own  satisfaction,  and 
two  or  three  went  up  to  Singin'  Sandy  and  up 
ended  him  on  his  feet.  Somebody  fetched  a 
gourd  of  water  from  the  public  well  and  sluiced 
it  over  his  head  and  face.  He  was  all  blood 
where  he  wasn't  mud  —  streaked  and  sopped 

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A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

with  it,  and  mud  was  caked  in  his  hair  thick, 
like  yellow  mortar,  with  the  water  dripping 
down  off  of  it.  He  didn't  say  a  word  at  first. 
He  got  his  breath  back  and  wiped  some  of 
the  blood  out  of  his  eyes  and  off  his  face  onto 
his  sleeve,  and  I  handed  him  his  old  skin  cap 
where  it  had  fallen  off  his  head.  The  cub 
broke  loose  and  came  running  to  him  and  he 
shook  himself  together  and  straightened  up 
and  looked  round  him.  He  looked  at  Harve 
Allen  standing  ten  feet  away  grinning,  and  he 
said  slow,  just  as  slow  and  quiet: 

"'I'll  be  back  agin  Mister,  one  month  frum 
today.  Wait  fur  me.' 

"That  was  all  —  just  that  Til  be  back  in  a 
month*  and  'wait  fur  me.'  And  then  as  he 
turned  around  and  went  away,  staggering  a 
little  on  his  pins,  with  his  cub  trotting  along 
side  him,  I'm  blessed  if  he  didn't  start  up  that 
little  humming  song  of  his;  only  it  sounded 
pretty  thick  coming  through  a  pair  of  lips  that 
were  battered  up  and  one  of  them,  the  upper 
one,  was  split  open  on  his  front  teeth. 

"We  didn't  then  know  what  he'd  meant,  but 
we  knew  in  a  month.  For  that  day  month,  on 
the  hour  pretty  nigh,  here  came  Singin'  Sandy 
tramping  in  by  himself.  Harve  Allen  was 
standing  in  front  of  a  doggery  that  a  man 
named  Whitis  ran  —  he  died  of  the  cholera  I 
remember  years  and  years  after  —  and  Singin' 
Sandy  walked  right  up  to  him  and  said:  'Well, 
here  I  am'  and  hit  out  at  Harve  with  his  fist. 

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He  hit  out  quick,  like  a  cat  striking,  but  he 
was  short  armed  and  under  sized.  He  didn't 
much  more  than  come  up  to  Harve's  shoulder 
and  even  if  the  lick  had  landed,  it  wouldn't 
have  dented  Harve  hardly.  His  intentions 
were  good  though,  and  he  swung  out  quick 
and  fast.  But  Harve  was  quicker  still.  Sing- 
in'  Sandy  hit  like  a  cat,  but  Harve  could  strike 
like  a  moccasin  snake  biting  you.  It  was  all 
over  again  almost  before  it  started. 

"Harve  Allen  bellowed  once,  like  a  bull, 
and  downed  him  and  jumped  on  him  and 
stomped  him  in  the  chest  with  his  knees  and 
pounded  and  clouted  him  in  the  face  until  the 
little  man  stretched  out  on  the  ground  still 
and  quiet.  Then,  Harve  climbed  off  of  him 
and  swaggered  off.  Even  now,  looking  back 
on  it  all,  it  seems  like  a  shameful  thing  to  admit, 
but  nobody  dared  touch  a  hand  to  Singin* 
Sandy  until  Harve  was  plumb  gone.  As  soon, 
though,  as  Harve  was  out  of  sight  behind  a 
cabin,  some  of  them  went  to  the  little  man  and 
picked  him  up  and  worked  over  him  until  he 
came  to.  If  his  face  had  been  dog's  meat 
before,  it  was  calf's  liver  now  —  just  pounded 
out  of  shape.  He  couldn't  get  but  one  eye 
open.  I  still  remember  how  it  looked.  It 
looked  like  a  piece  of  cold  gray  quartz — like 
the  tip  of  one  these  here  gray  flint  Indian  darts. 
He  held  one  hand  to  his  side  —  two  of  his  ribs 
were  caved  in,  it  turned  out  —  and  he  braced 
himself  against  the  wall  of  the  doggery  and 

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A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

looked  around  him.  He  was  looking  for  Harve 
Allen. 

'"Tell  him  for  me,'  he  said  slow  and  thick, 
'that  I'll  be  back  agin  in  a  month,  the  same 
as  usual.' 

"And  then  he  went  back  out  the  road  into 
the  oak  barrens,  falling  down  and  getting  up 
and  falling  some  more,  but  keeping  right  on. 
And  by  everything  that's  holy,  he  was  trying 
to  sing  as  he  went  and  making  a  bubbling 
noise  through  the  blood  that  was  in  his  throat. 

"They  all  stood  staring  at  him  until  he  was 
away  off  amongst  the  trees,  and  then  they 
recalled  that  that  was  what  he  had  said  before  — 
that  he'd  be  back  in  a  month;  and  two  or  three 
of  them  went  and  hunted  up  Harve  Allen  and 
gave  him  the  message.  He  swore  and  laughed 
that  laugh  of  his,  and  looked  hard  at  them  and 
said: 

"The  runty  varmint  must  love  a  beatin'  a 
sight  better  than  some  other  folks  I  could  name,' 
and  at  that  they  sidled  off,  scenting  trouble  for 
themselves  if  Harve  should  happen  to  take  it 
into  his  head  that  they'd  sided  with  Singin* 
Sandy." 

Cap'n  Jasper  stopped  to  taste  of  his  toddy, 
and  the  other  older  men  stirred  slightly,  im 
patient  for  him  to  go  on.  Sitting  there  on  the 
top  step  of  the  porch,  I  hugged  my  knees  in 
my  arms  and  waited  breathless,  and  Singin' 
Sandy  and  Harve  Allen  visualized  themselves 
for  me  there  before  my  eyes.  In  the  still  I 

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could  hear  the  darkies  singing  their  Sweet 
Chariot  hymn  at  their  little  white  church 
beyond  the  orchard.  That  was  the  fourth 
time  that  night  they  had  sung  that  same  song, 
and  when  they  switched  to  "Old  Ark  A'Movin' " 
we  would  know  that  the  mourners  were  begin 
ning  to  "come  through  "  and  seek  the  mourners' 
bench. 

Cap'n  Jasper  cleared  his  throat  briskly,  as 
a  man  might  rap  with  a  gavel  for  attention 
and  talked  on: 

"Well,  so  it  went.  So  it  went  for  five  endur 
ing  months  and  each  one  of  these  fights  was 
so  much  like  the  fight  before  it,  that  it's  not 
worth  my  while  trying  to  describe  'em  for  you 
boys.  Every  month,  on  the  day,  here  would 
come  Singin'  Sandy  Riggs,  humming  to  him 
self.  Once  he  came  through  the  slush  of  a 
thaw,  squattering  along  in  the  cold  mud  up 
to  his  knees,  and  once  'twas  in  a  driving  snow 
storm,  but  no  matter  what  the  weather  was 
or  how  bad  the  road  was,  he  came  and  was 
properly  beaten,  and  went  back  home  again 
still  a-humming  or  trying  to.  Once  Harve 
cut  loose  and  crippled  him  up  so  he  laid  in  a 
shack  under  the  bank  for  two  days  before  he 
could  travel  back  to  his  little  clearing  on  the 
Grundy  Fork.  It  came  mighty  near  being 
Kittie,  Bar  the  Door  with  the  little  man  that 
time.  But  he  was  tough  as  swamp  hickory, 
and  presently  he  was  up  and  going,  and  the 
last  thing  he  said  as  he  limped  away  was  for 

[306] 


A    DOGGED     UNDER     DOG 

somebody  to  give  the  word  to  Harve  Allen 
that  he'd  be  back  that  day  month.  I  never 
have  been  able  to  decide  yet  in  my  own  mind, 
whether  he  always  made  his  trips  a  month 
apart  because  he  had  one  of  those  orderly 
minds  and  believed  in  doing  things  regularly,  or 
because  he  figured  it  would  take  him  a  month 
to  get  cured  up  from  the  last  beating  Harve 
gave  him.  But  anyhow,  so  it  was.  He  never 
hurt  Harve  to  speak  of,  and  he  never  failed 
to  get  pretty  badly  hurt  himself.  There  was 
another  thing  —  whilst  they  were  fighting, 
he  never  made  a  sound,  except  to  grunt  and 
pant,  but  Harve  would  be  cursing  and  swearing 
all  the  time. 

"People  took  to  waiting  and  watching  for 
the  day  —  Singin'  Sandy's  day,  they  began 
calling  it.  The  word  spread  all  up  and  down 
the  river  and  into  the  back  settlements,  and 
folks  would  come  from  out  of  the  barrens  to 
see  it.  But  nobody  felt  the  call  to  interfere. 
Some  were  afraid  of  Harve  Allen  and  some 
thought  Singin'  Sandy  would  get  his  belly-full 
of  beatings  after  awhile  and  quit.  But  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  when  Singin'  Sandy 
was  due  for  the  eighth  time  —  if  he  kept  his 
promise,  which  as  I'm  telling  you  he  always 
had  —  Captain  Braxton  Montjoy,  the  militia 
captain,  who'd  fought  in  the  war  of  1812  and 
afterwards  came  to  be  the  first  mayor  of  this 
town,  walked  up  to  Harve  Allen  where  he  was 
lounging  in  front  of  one  of  the  doggeries.  I 

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still  remember  his  swallowfork  coat  and  his 
white  neckerchief  and  the  little  walking  stick 
he  was  carrying.  It  was  one  of  these  little 
shiny  black  walking  sticks  made  out  of  some 
kind  of  a  limber  wood,  and  it  had  a  white 
handle  on  it,  of  ivory,  carved  like  a  woman's 
leg.  His  pants  were  strapped  down  tight  under 
his  boots,  just  so.  Captain  Braxton  Mont- 
joy  was  fine  old  stock  and  he  was  the  best 
dressed  man  between  the  mouth  of  the  Cum 
berland  and  the  Mississippi.  And  he  wasn't 
afraid  of  anything  that  wore  hair  or  hide. 

"'Harvey  Allen,'  he  says,  picking  out  his 
words,  'Harvey  Allen,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that 
you  have  been  maltreating  this  man  Riggs  long 
enough.' 

"Harve  Allen  was  big  enough  to  eat  Captain 
Braxton  Montjoy  up  in  two  bites,  but  he  didn't 
start  biting.  He  twitched  back  his  lips  like 
a  fice  dog  and  blustered  up. 

"'What  is  it  to  you?'   says  Harve. 

"'It  is  a  good  deal  to  me  and  to  every  other 
man  who  believes  in  fair  play,'  says  Captain 
Braxton  Montjoy.  'I  tell  you  that  I  want  it 
stopped.' 

'"The  man  don't  walk  in  leather  that  kin 
dictate  to  me  what  I  shall  and  shall  not  do,'  says 
Harve,  trying  to  work  himself  up,  'I'm  a  leetle 
the  best  two  handed  man  that  lives  in  these 
here  settlemints,  and  the  man  that  tries  to 
walk  my  log  had  better  be  heeled  for  bear.  I'm 
half  hoss  and  half  alligator  and — ' 

[3081 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

"  Captain  Braxton  Montjoy  stepped  up  right 
close  to  him  and  began  tapping  Harve  on  the 
breast  of  his  old  deer  skin  vest  with  the  handle 
of  his  little  walking  stick.  At  every  word  he 
tapped  him. 

"'I  do  not  care  to  hear  the  intimate  details 
of  your  ancestry,'  he  says.  'Your  family 
secrets  do  not  concern  me,  Harvey  Allen. 
What  does  concern  me,'  he  says,  'is  that  you 
shall  hereafter  desist  from  maltreating  a  man 
half  your  size.  Do  I  make  my  meaning  suffi 
ciently  plain  to  your  understanding,  Harvey 
Allen?' 

"At  that  Harve  changed  his  tune.  Actually 
it  seemed  like  a  whine  came  into  his  voice. 
It  did,  actually. 

"'Well,  why  don't  he  keep  away  from  me 
then?'  he  says.  'Why  don't  he  leave  me  be 
and  not  come  round  here  every  month  pesterin* 
fur  a  fresh  beatin'  ?  Why  don't  he  take  his 
quittances  and  quit?  There's  plenty  other 
men  I'd  rather  chaw  up  and  spit  out  than  this 
here  Riggs  —  and  some  of  'em  ain't  so  fur 
away  now,'  he  says,  scowling  round  him. 

"Captain  Braxton  Montjoy  started  to  say 
something  more  but  just  then  somebody  spoke 
behind  him  and  he  swung  round  and  there  was 
Singin'  Sandy,  wet  to  the  flanks  where  he'd 
waded  through  a  spring  branch. 

"Excuse  me,  Esquire,'  he  says  to  Captain 
Montjoy,  'and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  but 
this  here  is  a  private  matter  that's  got  to  be 

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settled  between  me  and  that  man  yonder  — 
and  it  can't  be  settled  only  jist  one  way.' 

"'Well  sir,  how  long  do  you  expect  to  keep 
this  up,  may  I  inquire?'  says  Captain  Braxton 
Montjoy,  who  never  forgot  his  manners  and 
never  let  anybody  else  forget  them  either. 

"Ontil  I  lick  him/  says  Singin'  Sandy,  'ontil 
I  lick  him  good  and  proper  and  make  him  yell 
'miff!' 

"'Why  you  little  spindley,  runty  strippit, 
you  ain't  never  goin'  to  be  able  to  lick  me,' 
snorts  out  Harve  over  Captain  Braxton  Mont- 
joy's  shoulder,  and  he  cursed  at  Sandy.  But 
I  noticed  he  hadn't  rushed  him  as  he  usually 
did.  Maybe,  though,  that  was  because  of 
Captain  Montjoy  standing  in  the  way. 

"'You  ain't  never  goin'  to  be  big  enough  or 
strong  enough  or  man  enough  to  lick  me,'  says 
Harve. 

"'I  'low  to  keep  on  tryin',  says  Singin' 
Sandy.  'And  ef  I  don't  make  out  to  do  it, 
there's  my  buddy  growin'  up  and  comin'  along. 
And  some  day  he'll  do  it,'  he  says,  not  boasting 
and  not  arguing,  but  cheerfully  and  confidently 
as  though  he  was  telling  of  a  thing  that  was 
already  the  same  as  settled. 

"  Captain  Braxton  Montjoy  reared  away  back 
on  his  high  heels  —  he  wore  high  heels  to  make 
him  look  taller,  I  reckon  —  and  he  looked 
straight  at  Singin'  Sandy  standing  there  so 
little  and  insignificant  and  raggedy,  and  all 
gormed  over  with  mud  and  wet  with  branch 

[3101 


A    DOGGED     UNDER    DOG 

water,  and  smelling  of  the  woods  and  the  new 
ground.  There  was  a  purple  mark  still  under 
one  of  Sandy's  eyes  and  a  scabbed  place  on  top 
of  one  of  his  ears  where  Harve  Allen  had  pretty 
nigh  torn  it  off  the  side  of  his  head. 

"By  Godfrey,'  says  Captain  Braxton  Mont- 
joy,  'by  Godfrey,  sir,'  and  he  began  pulling  off 
his  glove  which  was  dainty  and  elegant,  like 
everything  else  about  him.  'Sir,'  he  says  to 
Singin'  Sandy,  'I  desire  to  shake  your  hand.' 

"So  they  shook  hands  and  Captain  Braxton 
Montjoy  stepped  one  side  and  bowed  with 
ceremony  to  Singin'  Sandy,  and  Singin'  Sandy 
stepped  in  toward  Harve  Allen  humming  to 
himself. 

"For  this  once,  anyhow,  Harve  wasn't  for 
charging  right  into  the  mix-up  at  the  first  go-off. 
It  almost  seemed  like  he  wanted  to  back  away. 
But  Singin'  Sandy  lunged  out  and  hit  him  in 
the  face  and  stung  him,  and  then  Harve's  brute 
fighting  instinct  must  have  come  back  into 
his  body,  and  he  flailed  out  with  both  fists  and 
staggered  Singin'  Sandy  back.  Harve  ran  in 
on  him  and  they  locked  and  there  was  a  whirl 
of  bodies  and  down  they  went,  in  the  dirt, 
with  Harve  on  top  as  per  usual.  He  licked 
Singin'  Sandy,  but  he  didn't  lick  him  nigh  as 
hard  as  he'd  always  done  it  up  till  then.  When 
he  got  through,  Singin'  Sandy  could  get  up  off 
the  ground  by  himself  and  that  was  the  first 
time  he  had  been  able  to  do  so.  He  stood 
there  a  minute  swaying  a  little  on  his  legs  and 

[3111 


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wiping  the  blood  out  of  his  eyes  where  it  ran 
down  from  a  little  cut  right  in  the  edge  of  his 
hair.  He  spit  and  we  saw  that  two  of  his 
front  teeth  were  gone,  broken  short  off  up  in 
the  gums;  and  Singin'  Sandy  felt  with  the  tip 
of  his  tongue  at  the  place  where  they'd  been. 
*  In  a  month,'  he  says,  and  away  he  goes, 
singing  his  tuneless  song. 

"Well,  I  watched  Harve  Allen  close  that 
next  month  —  and  I  think  nearly  all  the  other 
people  did  too.  It  was  a  strange  thing  too, 
but  he  went  through  the  whole  month  without 
beating  up  anybody.  Before  that  he'd  never 
let  a  month  pass  without  one  fight  anyhow. 
Yet  he  drank  more  whiskey  than  was  common 
even  with  him.  Once  I  ran  up  on  him  sitting 
on  a  drift  log  down  in  the  willows  by  himself, 
seemingly  studying  over  something  in  his  mind. 

"When  the  month  was  past  and  Singin' 
Sandy's  day  rolled  round  again  for  the  ninth 
time,  it  was  spring  time,  and  the  river  was  bank- 
full  from  the  spring  rise  and  yellow  as  paint 
with  mud  and  full  of  drift  and  brush.  Out 
from  shore  a  piece,  in  the  current,  floating 
snags  were  going  down,  thick  as  harrow  teeth, 
all  pointing  the  same  way  like  big  black  fish 
going  to  spawn.  Early  that  morning,  the  river 
had  bitten  out  a  chunk  of  crumbly  clay  bank 
and  took  a  cabin  in  along  with  it,  and  there 
was  a  hard  job  saving  a  couple  of  women 
and  a  whole  shoal  of  young  ones.  For  the 
time  being  that  made  everybody  forget  about 

[312] 


A    DOGGED    UNDER    DOG 

Singin'  Sandy  being  due,  and  so  nobody,  I 
think,  saw  him  coming.  I  know  I  didn't  see 
him  at  all  until  he  stood  on  the  river  bank 
humming  to  himself. 

"He  stood  there  on  the  bank  swelling  him 
self  out  and  humming  his  little  song  louder  and 
clearer  than  ever  he  had  before  —  and  fifty 
yards  out  from  shore  in  a  dugout  that  belonged 
to  somebody  else,  was  Bully  Harve  Allen, 
fighting  the  current  and  dodging  the  drift 
logs  as  he  paddled  straight  for  the  other  side 
that  was  two  miles  and  better  away.  He  never 
looked  back  once;  but  Singin'  Sandy  stood  and 
watched  him  until  he  was  no  more  than  a  moving 
spot  on  the  face  of  those  angry,  roily  waters. 
Singin'  Sandy  lived  out  his  life  and  died  here  — 
he's  got  grandchildren  scattered  all  over  this 
county  now,  but  from  that  day  forth  Harve 
Allen  never  showed  his  face  in  this  country." 

Cap'n  Jasper  got  up  slowly,  and  shook  him 
self,  as  a  sign  that  his  story  was  finished,  and 
the  others  rose,  shuffling  stiffly.  It  was  getting 
late  —  time  to  be  getting  home.  The  services 
in  the  darky  church  had  ended  and  we  could 
hear  the  unseen  worshippers  trooping  by,  still 
chanting  snatches  of  then*  revival  tunes. 

"Well,  boys,  that's  all  there  is  to  tell  of  that 
tale,"  said  Cap'n  Jasper,  "all  that  I  now  remem 
ber  anyhow.  And  now  what  would  you  say 
it  was  that  made  Harve  Allen  run  away  from 
the  man  he'd  already  licked  eight  times  hand 
running.  Would  you  call  it  cowardice?" 

[313] 


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It  was  Squire  Buckley,  the  non  committal, 
who  made  answer. 

"Well,"  said  Squire  Buckley  slowly,  "p'raps 
I  would  —  and  then  agin,  on  the  other  hand, 
p'raps  I  wouldn't." 


[314] 


X 

BLACK  AND  WHITE 


OVER  night,  it  almost  seems,  a    town 
will    undergo    radical    and     startling 
changes.     The     transition     covers     a 
period   of  years  really,  but  to  those 
who  have  lived  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  realiza 
tion  comes  sometimes  with  the  abruptness  of  a 
physical   shock;   while  the  returning  prodigal 
finds  himself  lost  amongst  surroundings  which 
by  rights  should  wear  shapes  as  familiar  as  the 
back  of  his  own  hand.     It  is  as  though  an 
elderly  person  of  settled  habits  and  a  confirmed 
manner  of  life  had  suddenly  fared  forth  in  new 
and    amazing    apparel  —  as    though    he    had 
swapped  his  crutch  for  a  niblick  and  his  clay 
pipe  for  a  gold  tipped  cigarette. 

It  was  so  with  our  town.  From  the  snoreful 
profundities  of  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  sleep  it  woke 
up  one  morning  to  find  itself  made  over; 
whether  for  better  or  worse  I  will  not  presume 
to  say,  but  nevertheless,  made  over.  Before 
this  the  natural  boundaries  to  the  north  had 

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been  a  gravel  bluff  which  chopped  off  sharply 
above  a  shallow  flat  sloping  away  to  the  willows 
and  the  river  beyond.  Now  this  saucer-expanse 
was  dotted  over  with  mounds  of  made  ground 
rising  like  pimples  in  a  sunken  cheek;  and 
spreading  like  a  red  brick  rash  across  the  face 
of  it,  was  a  tin  roofed,  flat-topped  irritation  of 
structures  —  a  cotton  mill,  a  brewery,  and  a 
small  packing  plant  dominating  a  clutter  of 
lesser  industries.  Above  these  on  the  edge 
of  the  hollow,  the  old  warehouse  still  stood,  but 
the  warehouse  had  lost  its  character  while 
keeping  its  outward  shape.  Fifty  years  it 
resounded  to  a  skirmish  fire  clamor  of  many 
hammers  as  the  negro  hands  knocked  the  hoops 
off  the  hogsheads  and  the  auctioneer  bellowed 
for  his  bids;  where  now,  brisk  young  women, 
standing  in  rows,  pasted  labels  and  drove  corks 
into  bottles  of  Dr.  Bozeman's  Infallible  Cough 
Cure.  Nothing  remained  to  tell  the  past 
glories  of  the  old  days,  except  that,  in  wet 
weather,  a  faint  smell  of  tobacco  would  steam 
out  of  the  cracks  in  the  floor;  and  on  the  rotted 
rafters  over  head,  lettered  in  the  sprawling 
chirography  of  some  dead  and  gone  shipping 
clerk,  were  the  names  and  the  dates  and  the 
times  of  record-breaking  steamboat  runs  — 
Idlewild,  Louisville  to  Memphis,  so  many 
hours  and  so  many  minutes;  Pat  Cleburne, 
Nashville  to  Paducah,  so  many  hours  and  so 
many  minutes. 

Nobody  ever  entered  up  the  records  of  steam- 

[316] 


BLACK    AND     WHITE 


boat  runs  any  more;  there  weren't  any  to  be 
entered  up.  Where  once  wide  side- wheelers 
and  long,  limber  stern-wheelers  had  lain  three 
deep  at  the  wharf,  was  only  a  thin  and  un 
impressive  fleet  of  small  fry-harbor  tugs  and 
a  ferry  or  two,  and  shabby  little  steamers  plying 
precariously  in  the  short  local  trades.  Along 
the  bank  ran  the  tracks  of  the  railroad  that  had 
taken  away  the  river  business  and  the  switch 
engines  tooted  derisively  as  if  crowing  over 
a  vanquished  and  a  vanished  rival,  while  they 
shoved  the  box  cars  back  and  forth.  Erecting 
themselves  on  high  trestles  like  straddle  bugs, 
three  more  railroads  had  come  in  across  the 
bottoms  to  a  common  junction  point,  and  still 
another  was  reliably  reported  to  be  on  its  way. 
Wherefore,  the  Daily  Evening  News  frequently 
referred  to  itself  as  the  Leading  Paper  of  the 
Future  Gateway  of  the  New  South.  It  also 
took  the  Associated  Press  dispatches  and  carried 
a  column  devoted  to  the  activities  of  the 
Women's  Club,  including  suffrage  and  domestic 
science. 

So  it  went.  There  was  a  Board  of  Trade 
with  two  hundred  names  of  members,  and  half 
of  them,  at  least,  were  new  names,  and  the 
president  was  a  spry  new  comer  from  Ohio. 
A  Republican  mayor  had  actually  been  elected 
—  and  that,  if  you  knew  the  early  politics  of 
our  town,  was  the  most  revolutionary  thing  of 
all.  Apartment  houses  —  regular  flat  build 
ings,  with  elevator  service  and  all  that  — 

[317] 


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shoved  their  aggressive  stone  and  brick  faces 
up  to  the  pavement  line  of  a  street  where  before 
old  white  houses  with  green  shutters  and  fluted 
porch  pillars  had  snuggled  back  among  hack 
berries  and  maples  like  a  row  of  broody  old 
hens  under  a  hedge.  The  churches  had  caught 
the  spirit  too;  there  were  new  churches  to 
replace  the  old  ones.  Only  that  stronghold 
of  the  ultra  conservatives,  the  Independent 
Presbyterian,  stood  fast  on  its  original  site, 
and  even  the  Independent  Presbyterian  had 
felt  the  quickening  finger  of  progress.  Under 
its  gray  pillared  front  were  set  ornate  stone 
steps,  like  new  false  teeth  in  the  mouth  of  a 
stern  old  maid,  and  the  new  stained  glass 
memorial  windows  at  either  side  were  as  paste 
earrings  for  her  ancient  virginal  ears.  The 
spinster  had  traded  her  blue  stockings  for 
doctrinal  half  hose  of  a  livelier  pattern,  and 
these  were  the  outward  symbols  of  the  change. 
But  there  was  one  institution  among  us  that 
remained  as  it  was  —  Eighth  of  August,  'Man 
cipation  Day,  celebrated  not  only  by  all  the 
black  proportion  of  our  population  —  thirty-six 
per  cent  by  the  last  census  —  but  by  the  darkies 
from  all  the  lesser  tributary  towns  for  seventy- 
five  miles  around.  It  was  not  their  own 
emancipation  that  they  really  celebrated; 
Lincoln's  Proclamation  I  believe  was  issued  of 
a  January  morning,  but  January  is  no  fit  time 
for  the  holidaying  of  a  race  to  whom  heat 
means  comfort  and  the  more  heat  the  greater 

[3181 


BLACK    AND    WHITE 


the  comfort.  So  away  back,  a  selection  had 
been  made  of  the  anniversary  of  the  freeing 
of  the  slaves  in  Hayti  or  San  Domingo  or 
somewhere  and  indeed  it  was  a  most  happy 
selection.  By  the  Eighth  of  August  the  water 
melons  are  at  their  juiciest  and  ripest,  the  frying 
size  pullet  of  the  spring  has  attained  just  the 
rightful  proportions  for  filling  one  skillit  all  by 
itself,  and  the  sun  may  be  reliably  counted 
upon  to  offer  up  a  satisfactory  temperature  of 
anywhere  from  ninety  in  the  shade  to  one 
hundred  and  two.  Once  it  went  to  one  hundred 
and  four  and  a  pleasant  time  was  had  by  all. 

Right  after  one  Eighth  the  celebrants  began 
laying  by  their  savings  against  the  coming  of  the 
next  Eighth.  It  was  Christmas,  Thanksgiving, 
and  the  Fourth  of  July  crowded  into  the  com 
pass  of  one  day  —  a  whole  year  of  anticipation 
packed  in  and  tamped  down  into  twenty-four 
hours  of  joyous  realization.  There  never 
were  enough  excursion  trains  to  bring  all  those 
from  a  distance  who  wanted  to  come  in  for 
the  Eighth.  Some,  travelers,  the  luckier  ones, 
rode  in  state  on  packed  day  coaches  and  the 
others,  as  often  as  not,  came  from  clear  down 
below  the  Tennessee  line,  on  flat  cars,  shrieking 
with  nervous  joy  as  the  engine  jerked  them 
around  the  sharp  curves,  they  being  meantime 
oblivious  alike  to  the  sun  shining  with  mid 
summer  fervor  upon  their  unprotected  heads, 
and  the  coal  cinders,  as  big  as  buttons,  that 
rained  down  in  gritty  showers.  There  was 

[319] 


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some  consolation  then  in  having  a  complexion 
that  neither  sun  could  tan  nor  cinders  blacken. 

For  that  one  day  out  of  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  and  a  fourth,  the  town  was  a 
town  of  dark  joy.  The  city  authorities  made 
special  provision  for  the  comfort  and  the 
accommodation  of  the  invading  swarms  and  the 
merchants  wore  pleased  looks  for  days  before 
hand  and  for  weeks  afterward  —  to  them  one 
good  Eighth  of  August  was  worth  as  much  as 
six  Court  Mondays  and  a  couple  of  circus  days. 
White  people  kept  indoors  as  closely  as  possible, 
not  for  fear  of  possible  race  clashes,  because 
we  didn't  have  such  things;  but  there  wasn't 
room,  really,  for  anybody  except  the  celebrants. 
The  Eighth  was  one  day  when  the  average 
white  family  ate  a  cold  snack  for  dinner  and 
when  family  buggies  went  undrivered  and 
family  washing  went  unwashed. 

On  a  certain  Eighth  of  August  which  I  have 
in  mind,  Judge  Priest  spent  the  simmering  day 
alone  in  his  empty  house  and  in  the  evening 
when  he  came  out  of  Clay  Street  into  Jefferson, 
he  revealed  himself  as  the  sole  pedestrian 
of  his  color  in  sight.  Darkies,  though,  were 
everywhere  —  town  darkies  with  handkerchiefs 
tucked  in  at  their  necks  in  the  vain  hope  of 
saving  linen  collars  from  the  wilting-down  pro 
cess;  cornfield  darkies  whose  feet  were  cramped, 
cabin'd,  cribb'd  and  confined,  as  the  saying 
goes,  inside  of  stiff  new  shoes  and  sore  besides 
from  much  pelting  over  unwontedly  hard 

[320] 


BLACK    AND    WHITE 


footing;  darkies  perspiry  and  rumpled;  darkies 
gorged  and  leg  weary,  but  still  bent  on  draining 
the  cup  of  their  yearly  joy  to  its  delectable 
dregs.  Rivers  of  red  pop  had  already  flowed, 
Niagaras  of  lager  beer  and  stick  gin  had  been 
swallowed  up,  breast  works  of  parched  goobers 
had  been  shelled  flat,  and  black  forests  of  five 
cent  cigars  had  burned  to  the  water's  edge; 
and  yet  here  was  the  big  night  just  getting 
fairly  started.  Full  voiced  bursts  of  laughter 
and  yells  of  sheer  delight  assaulted  the  old 
Judge's  ears.  Through  the  yellowish  dusk 
one  hired  livery  stable  rig  after  another  went 
streaking  by,  each  containing  an  unbleached 
Romeo  and  his  pastel-shaded  Juliet. 

A  corner  down  town,  where  the  two  branches 
of  the  car  lines  fused  into  one,  was  the  noisiest 
spot  yet.  Here  Ben  Boyd  and  Bud  Dobson, 
acknowledged  to  be  the  two  loudest  mouthed 
darkies  in  town,  contended  as  business  rivals. 
Each  wore  over  his  shoulder  the  sash  of  emi 
nence  and  bore  on  his  breast  the  badge  of  much 
honor.  Ben  Boyd  had  a  shade  the  stronger 
voice,  perhaps,  but  Bud  Dobson  excelled  in 
native  eloquence.  On  opposite  sidewalks  they 
stood,  sweating  like  brown  stone  china  ice 
pitchers,  wide  mouthed  as  two  bull-alligators. 

"Come  on,  you  niggers,  dis  way  to  de  real 
show,"  Ben  Boyd  would  bellow  unendingly, 
"Remember  de  grand  free  balloom  ascension 
teks  place  at  eight  o'clock,"  and  Ben  would 
wave  his  long  arms  like  a  flutter  mill. 

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"Don't  pay  no  'tention,  friends,  to  dat  cheap 
nigger,"  Bud  Dobson  would  vociferously  plead, 
"an'  don't  furgit  de  grand  fire  works  display 
at  man  park!  Ladies  admitted  free,  widout 
charge!  Dis  is  de  only  place  to  go!  Tek 
de  green  car  fur  de  grand  annual  outin'  an* 
ball  of  de  Sisters  of  the  Mysterious  Ten!" 

Back  it  would  come  in  a  roar  from  across 
the  way: 

"Tek  de  red  car  —  dat's  de  one,  dat's  de 
one,  folks!  Dis  way  fur  de  big  gas  balloom!" 

Both  of  them  were  lying  —  there  was  no 
balloon  to  go  up,  no  intention  of  admitting 
anybody  free  to  anything.  The  pair  expanded 
their  fictions,  giving  to  their  work  the  spon 
taneous  brilliancy  of  the  born  romancer.  Like 
straws  caught  in  opposing  cross  currents,  their 
victims  were  pulled  two  ways  at  once.  A 
flustered  group  would  succumb  to  Bud's 
blandishments  and  he  would  shoo  them  aboard 
a  green  car.  But  the  car  had  to  be  starting 
mighty  quick,  else  Bud  Dobson 's  siren  song 
would  win  them  over  and  trailing  after  their 
leader,  who  was  usually  a  woman,  like  black 
sheep  behind  a  bell  wether  they  would  pile 
off  and  stampede  over  to  where  the  red  car 
waited.  Some  changed  their  minds  half  a 
dozen  times  before  they  were  finally  borne 
away. 

These  were  the  country  darkies,  though  — 
the  town  bred  celebrants  knew  exactly  where 
they  were  going  and  what  they  would  do  when 

[322] 


BLACK     AND     WHITE 


they  got  there.  They  moved  with  the  assured 
bearing  of  cosmopolitans,  stirred  and  exhila 
rated  by  the  clamor  but  not  confused  by  it. 
Grand  in  white  dresses,  with  pink  sashes  and 
green  headgear,  the  Imperial  Daughters  of  the 
Golden  Star  rolled  by  in  a  furniture  van.  The 
Judge  thought  he  caught  a  chocolate-colored 
glimpse  of  Aunt  Dilsey,  his  cook,  enthroned 
on  a  front  seat,  as  befitting  the  Senior  Grand 
Potentate  of  the  lodge;  anyhow,  he  knew  she 
must  be  up  front  there  somewhere.  If  any 
cataclysm  of  Providence  had  descended  upon 
that  furniture  van  that  night  many  a  kitchen 
beside  his  would  have  mourned  a  biscuit  maker 
par  excellence.  Sundry  local  aristocrats  of  the 
race  —  notably  the  leading  town  barber,  a 
high  school  teacher  and  a  shiny  black  under 
taker  in  a  shiny  high  hat  —  passed  in  an  auto 
mobile,  especially  loaned  for  the  occasion  by 
a  white  friend  and  customer  of  the  leading 
barber.  It  was  the  first  time  an  automobile 
had  figured  in  an  Eighth  of  August  outing; 
its  occupants  bore  themselves  accordingly. 

Further  along,  in  the  centre  of  the  business 
district,  the  Judge  had  almost  to  shove  a  way 
for  himself  through  crowds  that  were  nine- 
tenths  black.  There  was  no  actual  disorder, 
but  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  unrestrained 
race  exultation.  You  couldn't  put  your  hand 
on  it,  nor  express  it  in  words  perhaps,  but  it 
was  there  surely.  Turning  out  from  the  lit-up 
and  swarming  main  thoroughfare  into  the 

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quieter  reaches  of  a  side  street,  Judge  Priest 
was  put  to  it  to  avoid  a  collision  with  an  onward 
rush  of  half  grown  youths,  black,  brown,  and 
yellow.  Whooping,  they  clattered  on  by  him 
and  never  looked  back  to  see  who  it  was  they 
had  almost  run  over. 

In  this  side  street  the  Judge  was  able  to  make 
a  better  headway;  the  rutted  sidewalk  was 
almost  untraveled  and  the  small  wholesale 
houses  which  mainly  lined  it,  were  untenanted 
and  dark.  Two-thirds  of  a  block  along,  he 
came  to  a  somewhat  larger  building  where  an 
open  entry  way  framed  the  foot  of  a  flight  of 
stairs  mounting  up  into  a  well  of  pitchy  gloom. 
Looking  up  the  stairs  was  like  looking  up  to  a 
sooty  chimney,  except  that  a  chimney  would 
have  shown  a  dim  opening  at  the  top  and  this 
vista  was  walled  in  blankness  and  ended  in 
blankness.  Judge  Priest  turned  in  here  and 
began  climbing  upward,  feeling  the  way  for 
his  feet  cautiously. 

Once  upon  a  time,  a  good  many  years  before 
this,  Kamleiter's  Hall  had  been  in  the  centre 
of  things  municipal.  Nearly  all  the  lodges  and 
societies  had  it  then  for  their  common  meeting 
place;  but  when  the  new  and  imposing  Fra 
ternity  Building  was  put  up,  with  its  elevator, 
and  its  six  stories  and  its  electric  lights,  and  all, 
the  Masons  and  the  Odd  Fellows  and  the  rest 
moved  their  belongings  up  there.  Gideon  K. 
Irons  Camp  alone  remained  faithful.  The 
members  of  the  Camp  had  held  their  first 

[324] 


BLACK    AND     WHITE 


meeting  in  Kamleiter's  Hall  back  in  the  days 
when  they  were  just  organizing  and  Kamleiter's 
was  just  built.  They  had  used  its  assembly 
room  when  there  were  two  hundred  and  more 
members  in  good  standing,  and  with  the  feeble 
persistency  of  old  men  who  will  cling  to  the 
shells  of  past  things,  after  the  pith  of  the  sub 
stance  is  gone,  they  still  used  it. 

So  the  Judge  should  have  known  those  steps 
by  the  feel  of  them  under  his  shoe  soles,  he 
had  been  climbing  up  and  down  them  so  long. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  him  they  had  never  before 
been  so  steep  and  so  many  and  so  hard  to 
climb,  certainly  they  had  never  been  so  dark. 
Before  he  reached  the  top  he  was  helping  him 
self  along  with  the  aid  of  a  hand  pressed  against 
the  plastered  wall  and  he  stopped  twice  to 
rest  his  legs  and  get  his  breath.  He  was 
panting  hard  when  he  came  to  the  final  landing 
on  the  third  floor.  He  fumbled  at  a  door  until 
his  fingers  found  the  knob  and  turned  it.  He 
stood  a  moment,  getting  his  bearings  in  the 
blackness.  He  scratched  a  match  and  by  its 
flare  located  the  rows  of  iron  gas  jets  set  in  the 
wall,  and  he  went  from  one  to  another,  turning 
them  on  and  touching  the  match  flame  to  their 
stubbed  rubber  tips. 

It  was  a  long  bare  room  papered  in  a  mournful 
gray  paper,  that  was  paneled  off  with  stripings 
of  a  dirty  white.  There  were  yellow,  wooden 
chairs  ranged  in  rows  and  all  facing  a  small 
platform  that  had  desks  and  chairs  on  it,  and 

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an  old  fashioned  piano.  On  the  wall,  framed 
uniformly  in  square  black  wooden  frames  and 
draped  over  by  strips  of  faded  red  and  white 
bunting,  were  many  enlarged  photographs  and 
crayon  portraits  of  men  either  elderly  or  down 
right  aged.  Everything  spoke  of  age  and  hard 
usage.  There  were  places  where  gussets  of  the 
wall  paper  had  pulled  away  from  the  paste  and 
hung  now  in  loose  triangles  like  slatted  jib  sails. 
In  corners,  up  against  the  ceiling,  cobwebs 
hung  down  in  separate  tendrils  or  else  were 
netted  up  together  in  little  gray  hammocks 
to  catch  the  dust.  The  place  had  been  baking 
under  a  low  roof  all  day  and  the  air  was  curdled 
with  smells  of  varnish  and  glue  drawn  from  the 
chairs  and  the  mould  from  old  oil  cloth,  with 
a  lingering  savor  of  coal  oil  from  somewhere 
below.  The  back  end  of  the  hall  was  in  a 
gloom,  and  it  only  lifted  its  mask  part-way 
even  after  the  Judge  had  completed  his  round 
and  lit  all  the  jets  and  was  reaching  for  his 
pocket  handkerchief.  Maybe  it  was  the  poor 
light  with  its  flickery  shadows  and  maybe  it 
was  the  effect  of  the  heat,  but  standing  there 
mopping  his  forehead,  the  old  Judge  looked 
older  than  common.  His  plump  figure  seemed 
to  have  lost  some  of  its  rotundness  and  under 
his  eyes  the  flesh  was  pouchy  and  sagged.  Or 
at  least,  that  was  the  impression  which  Ed 
Gafford  got.  Ed  Gafford  was  the  odd  jobs 
man  of  Kamleiter's  Hall  and  he  came  now,  and 
was  profuse  with  apologies  for  his  tardiness. 

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"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Judge  Priest," 
he  began,  "for  bein'  a  little  late  about  gettin* 
down  here  to  light  up  and  open  up.  You  see, 
this  bein'  the  Eighth  of  August  and  it  so  hot 
and  ever'thing,  I  sort  of  jumped  at  the  conclu 
sion  that  maybe  there  wouldn't  be  none  of 
your  gentlemen  show  up  here  tonight." 

"Oh,  I  reckin  there'll  be  quite  a  lot  of  the 
boys  comin'  along  pretty  soon,  son,"  said  Judge 
Priest.  "It's  a  regular  monthly  meetin',  you 
know,  and  besides  there's  a  vacancy  to  be 
filled  —  we've  got  a  color  bearer  to  elect  tonight. 
I  should  say  there  ought  to  be  a  purty  fair 
crowd,  considerin'.  You  better  make  a  light 
on  them  stairs,  —  they're  as  black  as  a  pocket." 

"Right  away,  Judge,"  said  Gafford,  and 
departed. 

Left  alone,  the  Judge  sat  down  in  the  place 
of  the  presiding  officer  on  the  little  platform. 
Laboriously  he  crossed  one  fat  leg  on  the 
other,  and  looked  out  over  the  rows  of 
empty  wooden  chairs,  peopling  them  with  the 
images  of  the  men  who  wouldn't  sit  in  them 
ever  again.  The  toll  of  the  last  few  months 
had  been  a  heavy  one.  The  old  Judge  cast 
it  up  in  his  mind:  There  was  old  Colonel 
Horace  Farrell,  now,  the  Nestor  of  the  county 
bar  to  whom  the  women  and  men  of  his 
own  State  had  never  been  just  plain  women 
and  men,  but  always  noble  womanhood  and 
chivalric  manhood,  and  who  thought  in  rounded 
periods  and  even  upon  his  last  sick  bed  had 

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dealt  in  well  measured  phrases  and  sonorous 
metaphor  in  his  farewell  to  his  assembled 
children  and  grandchildren.  The  Colonel  had 
excelled  at  memorial  services  and  monument 
un veilings.  He  would  be  missed  —  there  was 
no  doubt  about  that. 

Old  Professor  Lycurgus  Reese  was  gone  too; 
who  was  principal  of  the  graded  school  for 
forty-odd  years  and  was  succeeded  a  mercifully 
short  six  months  before  his  death  by  an  abnor 
mally  intellectual  and  gifted  young  graduate 
of  a  normal  college  from  somewhere  up  in 
Indiana,  a  man  who  never  slurred  his  consonant 
r's  nor  dropped  his  final  g's,  a  man  who  spoke 
of  things  as  stimulating  and  forceful,  and  who 
had  ideas  about  Boy  Scout  movements  and 
Nature  Studies  for  the  Young  and  all  manner  of 
new  things,  a  remarkable  man,  truly,  yet  some 
had  thought  old  Professor  Reese  might  have 
been  retained  a  little  longer  anyhow. 

And  Father  Minor,  who  was  a  winged  devil 
of  Morgan's  cavalry  by  all  accounts,  but  a  most 
devoted  shepherd  of  a  struggling  flock  after 
he  donned  the  cloth,  and  old  Peter  J.  Galloway, 
the  lame  blacksmith,  with  his  impartial  Irish 
way  of  cursing  all  Republicans  as  Black  Radi 
cals  —  they  were  all  gone.  Yes,  and  a  dozen 
others  besides;  but  the  latest  to  go  was  Corporal 
Jake  Smedley,  color  bearer  of  the  Camp  from 
the  time  that  there  was  a  Camp. 

The  Judge  had  helped  bury  him  a  week  before. 
There  had  been  only  eight  of  the  members  who 

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turned  out  in  the  dust  and  heat  of  mid-summer 
for  the  funeral,  just  enough  to  form  the  custom 
ary  complement  of  honorary  pallbearers,  but 
the  eight  had  not  walked  to  the  cemetery 
alongside  the  hearse.  Because  of  the  weather, 
they  had  ridden  in  hacks.  It  was  a  new  depart 
ure  for  the  Camp  to  ride  in  hacks  behind  a  dead 
comrade,  and  that  had  been  the  excuse  —  the 
weather.  It  came  to  Judge  Priest,  as  he  sat 
there  now,  that  it  would  be  much  easier  here 
after  to  name  offhand  those  who  were  left, 
than  to  remember  those  who  were  gone.  He 
flinched  mentally,  his  mind  shying  away  from 
the  thought. 

Ten  minutes  passed  —  fifteen.  Judge  Priest 
shuffled  his  feet  and  fumed  a  little.  He  hauled 
out  an  old  silver  watch,  bulky  as  a  turnip,  with 
the  flat  silver  key  dangling  from  it  by  a  black 
string  and  consulted  its  face.  Then  he  heard 
steps  on  the  stairs  and  he  straightened  himself 
in  his  chair  and  Sergeant  Jimmy  Bagby  entered, 
alone.  The  Sergeant  carried  his  coat  over  his 
arm  and  he  patted  himself  affectionately  on 
his  left  side  and  dragged  his  feet  a  little.  As 
Commander  of  the  Camp,  the  Judge  greeted 
him  with  all  due  formality. 

"Don't  know  what's  comin'  over  this  here 
town,"  complained  the  sergeant,  when  he  had 
got  his  wind  back.  "Mob  of  these  here  crazy 
country  niggers  mighty  near  knocked  me  off 
the  sidewalk  into  the  gutter.  Well,  if  they 
hadn't  been  movin'  tolerable  fast,  I  bet  you 

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I'd  a  lamed  a  couple  of  'em,"  he  added,  his 
imagination  in  retrospect  magnifying  the  indig 
nant  swipe  he  made  at  unresisting  space  a 
good  half  minute  after  the  collision  occurred. 
The  Sergeant  soothed  his  ruffled  feelings  by 
a  series  of  little  wheezing  grunts  and  addressed 
the  chair  with  more  composure: 

"Seems  like  you  and  me  are  the  first  ones 
here,  Judge." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge  soberly,  "and  I  hope 
we  ain't  the  last  ones  too  —  that's  what  I'm 
hopin'.  What  with  the  weather  bein'  so  warm 
and  darkies  thick  everywhere"  —  he  broke 
off  short.  "It's  purty  near  nine  o'clock  now." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  said  the  Sergeant. 
"Then  we  shorely  oughter  be  startin'  purty 
soon.  Was  a  time  when  I  could  set  up  half 
the  night  and  not  feel  it  scarcely.  But  here 
lately  I  notice  I  like  to  turn  in  sort  of  early. 
I  reckin  it  must  be  the  weather  affectin'  me." 

"That  must  be  it,"  assented  the  Judge,  "I 
feel  it  myself  —  a  little;  but  look  here,  Sergeant, 
we  never  yet  started  off  a  regular  meetin' 
without  a  little  music.  I  reckin  we  might  wait 
a  little  while  on  Herman  to  come  and  play 
Dixie  for  us.  The  audience  will  be  small  but 
appreciative,  as  the  feller  says."  A  smile 
flickered  across  his  face.  "Herman  manages 
to  keep  younger  and  spryer  than  a  good  many 
of  the  boys." 

"Yes,  that's  so  too,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "but 
jest  yestiddy  I  beared  he  was  fixin'  to  turn  over 

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his  business  to  his  son  and  that  nephew  of  his 
and  retire." 

"That's  no  sign  he's  playin'  out,"  challenged 
Judge  Priest  rather  quickly,  "no  sign  at  all. 
I  reckin  Herman  jest  wants  to  knock  round 
amongst  his  friends  more." 

Sergeant  Bagby  nodded  as  if  this  theory  was 
a  perfectly  satisfactory  one  to  him.  A  little 
pause  fell.  The  Sergeant  reached  backward  to 
a  remote  and  difficult  hip  pocket  and  after 
two  unsuccessful  efforts,  he  fished  out  what 
appeared  to  be  a  bit  of  warped  planking. 

"They're  tearing  away  the  old  Sanders 
place,"  he  confessed  somewhat  sheepishly, 
"  and  I  stopped  in  by  there  as  I  come  down  and 
fetched  away  this  here  little  piece  of  clapboard 
for  a  sort  of  keepsake.  You  recollect,  Judge, 
that  was  where  Forrest  made  his  headquarters 
that  day  when  we  raided  back  into  town  here? 
Lawsy,  what  a  surprise  old  Bedford  did  give 
them  Yankees.  But  shucks,  that  was  Bedford's 
specialty  —  surprises."  He  stopped  and  cocked 
his  whity-gray  head  toward  the  door  hopefully. 

"Listen  yonder,  that  must  be  Herman  Fels- 
burg  comin'  up  the  steps  now.  Maybe  Doctor 
Lake  is  with  him.  Weather  or  no  weather, 
niggers  or  no  niggers,  it's  mighty  hard  to  keep 
them  two  away  from  a  regular  meetin'  of  the 
Camp." 

But  the  step  outside  was  too  light  a  step 
and  too  peart  for  Mr.  Felsburg's.  It  was  Ed 
Gafford  who  shoved  his  head  in. 

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"Judge  Priest,"  he  stated,  "you're  wanted 
on  the  telephone  right  away.  They  said  they 
had  to  speak  to  you  in  person." 

The  Sergeant  waited,  with  what  patience  he 
could,  while  the  Judge  stumped  down  the  long 
flights,  and  after  a  little,  stumped  back  again. 
His  legs  were  quivering  under  him  and  it  was 
quite  a  bit  before  he  quit  blowing  and  panting. 
When  he  did  speak,  there  was  a  reluctant  tone 
in  his  voice. 

"It's  from  Herman's  house,"  he  said.  "He 
won't  be  with  us  tonight.  He  —  he's  had  a 
kind  of  a  stroke  —  fell  right  smack  on  the 
floor  as  he  was  puttin'  on  his  hat  to  come  down 
here.  'Twas  his  daughter  had  me  on  the  tele 
phone  —  the  married  one.  They're  afraid  it's 
paralysis  —  seems  like  he  can't  move  one  side 
and  only  mumbles,  sort  of  tongue  tied,  she  says, 
when  he  tried  to  talk.  But  I  reckin  it  ain't 
nowhere  near  as  serious  as  they  think  for." 

"No  suh,"  agreed  the  Sergeant,  "Herman's 
good  for  twenty  year  yit.  I  bet  you  he  jest  et 
something  that  didn't  agree  with  him.  He'll 
be  up  and  goin'  in  a  week  —  see  if  he  ain't. 
But  say,  that  means  Doctor  Lake  won't  be 
here  neither,  don't  it?" 

"Well,  that's  a  funny  thing,"  said  the  old 
Judge,  "I  pointedly  asked  her  what  he  said 
about  Herman,  and  she  mumbled  something 
about  Doctor  Lake's  gittin'  on  so  in  life  that 
she  hated  to  call  him  out  on  a  hot  night  like 
this.  So  they  called  in  somebody  else.  She 

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said,  though,  they  aimed  to  have  Lake  up  the 
first  thing  in  the  mornin'  unless  Herman  is 
better  by  then." 

"Well,  I'll  say  this,"  put  in  Sergeant  Bagby, 
"she  better  not  let  him  ketch  her  sayin'  he's 
too  old  to  be  answerin'  a  call  after  dark.  Lew 
Lake's  got  a  temper,  and  he  certainly  would 
give  that  young  woman  a  dressin'  down." 

The  old  Judge  moved  to  his  place  on  the 
platform  and  mounted  it  heavily.  As  he  sat 
down,  he  gave  a  little  grunting  sigh.  An  old 
man's  tired  sigh  carries  a  lot  of  meaning  some 
times;  this  one  did. 

"Jimmy,"  he  said,  "if  you  will  act  as  adjutant 
and  take  the  desk,  we'll  open  without  music, 
for  this  onc't.  This  is  about  the  smallest 
turn-out  we  ever  had  for  a  regular  meetin', 
but  we  can  go  ahead,  I  reckin." 

Sergeant  Bagby  came  forward  and  took  a 
smaller  desk  off  at  the  side  of  the  platform. 
Adjusting  his  spectacles,  just  so,  he  tugged  a 
warped  drawer  open  and  produced  a  flat  book 
showing  signs  of  long  wear  and  much  antiquity. 
A  sheet  of  heavy  paper  had  been  pasted  across 
the  cover  of  this  book,  but  with  much  use  it  had 
frayed  away  so  that  the  word  "Ledger*'  showed 
through  in  faded  gilt  letters.  The  Sergeant 
opened  at  a  place  where  a  row  of  names  ran 
down  the  blue  lined  sheet  and  continued  over 
upon  the  next  page.  Most  of  the  names  had 
dates  set  opposite  them  in  fresher  writing  than 
the  original  entries.  Only  now  and  then  was 

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there  a  name  with  no  date  written  after  it.  He 
cleared  his  throat  to  begin. 

"I  presume,"  the  Commander  was  saying, 
"that  we  might  dispense  with  the  roll  call  for 
tonight." 

"That's  agreeable  to  me,"  said  the  acting 
adjutant,  and  he  shut  up  the  book. 

"There  is  an  election  pendin'  to  fill  a  vacancy, 
but  in  view  of  the  small  attendance  present 
this  evenin'  — " 

The  Judge  cut  off  his  announcement  to  listen. 
Some  one  walking  with  the  slow,  uncertain  gait 
of  a  very  tired  or  a  very  feeble  person  was 
climbing  up  the  stairs.  The  shuffling  sound 
came  on  to  the  top  and  stopped,  and  an  old 
negro  man  stood  bareheaded  in  the  door  blinking 
his  eyes  at  the  light  and  winking  his  bushy 
white  tufts  of  eyebrows  up  and  down.  The 
Judge  shaded  his  own  eyes  the  better  to  make 
out  the  new  comer. 

"Why,  it's  Uncle  Ike  Copeland,"  he  said 
heartily.  "Come  right  in,  Uncle  Ike,  and  set 
down." 

"Yes,  take  a  seat  and  make  yourself  com 
fortable,"  added  the  Sergeant.  In  the  tones 
of  both  the  white  men  was  a  touch  of  kindly 
but  none  the  less  measurable  condescension  — 
that  instinctive  turn  of  inflection  by  which  the 
difference  held  firmly  to  exist  between  the  races 
was  expressed  and  made  plain,  but  in  this 
case  it  was  subtly  warmed  and  tinctured  with  an 
essence  of  something  else  —  an  indefinable, 

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evasive  something  that  would  probably  not 
have  been  apparent  in  their  greetings  to  a 
younger  negro. 

"Thanky,  genTmen,"  said  the  old  man  as 
he  came  in  slowly.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  so 
thin  that  the  stoop  in  his  back  seemed  an  in 
evitable  inbending  of  a  frame  too  long  and  too 
slight  to  support  its  burden.  And  he  was  very 
black.  His  skin  must  have  been  lustrous  and 
shiny  in  his  youth,  but  now  was  overlaid  with 
a  grayish  aspect,  like  the  mould  upon  withered 
fruit.  His  forehead,  naturally  high  and  narrow, 
was  deeply  indented  at  the  temples  and  he  had 
a  long  face  with  high  cheek  bones,  and  a  well 
developed  nose  and  thin  lips.  The  face  was 
Semitic  in  its  suggestion  rather  than  Ethiopian. 
The  whites  of  his  eyes  showed  a  yellow  tinge, 
but  the  brown  pupils  were  blurred  by  a  pro 
nounced  bluish  cast.  His  clothes  were  old  but 
spotlessly  clean,  and  his  shoes  were  slashed 
open  along  the  toes  and  his  bare  feet  showed 
through  the  slashed  places.  He  made  his  way 
at  a  hobbling  gait  toward  the  back  row  of 
chairs. 

"I'll  be  plenty  comfor'ble  yere,  suhs,"  he 
said  in  a  voice  which  sounded  almost  like  an 
accentuated  mimicry  of  Judge  Priest's  high 
notes.  He  eased  his  fragile  rack  of  bones  down 
into  a  chair  and  dropped  his  old  hat  on  the 
matting  of  the  aisle  beside  him,  seemingly 
oblivious  to  the  somewhat  puzzled  glances  of 
the  two  veterans. 

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"What's  the  reason  you  ain't  out  sashaying 
round  on  the  Eighth  with  your  own  people?" 
asked  the  Judge.  The  old  negro  began  a  thin, 
hen-like  chuckle,  but  his  cackle  ended  midway 
in  a  snort  of  disgust. 

"Naw  suh,"  he  answered,  "naw  suh,  not 
fur  me.  It  'pears  lak  most  of  de  ole  resi- 
denters  dat  I  knowed  is  died  off,  and  mo'  over 
I  ain't  gittin'  so  much  pleasure  projectin'  round 
'mongst  all  dese  brash  young  free  issue  niggers 
dat's  growed  up  round  yere.  They  ain't  got 
no  fitten  respec'  fur  dere  elders  and  dat's  a 
fac',  boss.  Jes'  now  seen  a  passel  of  'em  ridin* 
round  in  one  of  dese  yere  ortermobiles."  He 
put  an  ocean  of  surging  contempt  to  the  word: 
"  Huh  —  ortermobiles ! 

"And  dis  time  dar  warn't  no  place  on  de 
flatform  fur  me  at  de  festibul  out  in  dat  Fisher's 
Gyarden  as  dey  names  it,  do'  it  taint  nothin' 
'ceptin'  a  grove  of  trees.  Always  befoah  dis 
I  set  up  on  de  very  fust  and  fo'most  row  —  yas 
suh,  always  befoah  dis  hit  wuz  de  rule.  But 
dis  yeah  dey  tek  and  give  my  place  to  dat 
'bovish  young  nigger  preacher  dat  calls  hisse'f 
de  Rev'rund  J.  Fontleroy  Jones.  His  name 
is  Buddy  Jones  —  tha's  whut  it  tis  —  and  I 
'members  him  when  he  warn't  nothin' but  jes'  de 
same  ez  de  mud  onder  yore  feet.  Tha's  de  one 
whut  gits  my  place  on  de  flatform,  settin'  there 
in  a  broadcloth  suit,  wid  a  collar  on  him  mighty 
nigh  tall  nuff  to  saw  his  nappy  haid  off,  which 
it  wouldn't  be  no  real  loss  to  nobody  ef  it  did. 

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But  I  reckin  I  still  is  got  my  pride  lef '  ef  I  ain't 
got  nothin'  else.  My  grandmaw,  she  wuz  a 
full  blood  Affikin  queen  and  I  got  de  royal 
Congo  blood  in  my  veins.  So  I  jes'  teks  my 
foot  in  my  hand  and  comes  right  on  away  and 
lef  dat  trashy  nigger  dar,  spreadin'  hisse'f  and 
puffin'  out  his  mouf  lak  one  of  dese  yere  ole 
tree  frogs."  There  was  a  forlorn  complaint 
creeping  into  his  words;  but  he  cast  it  out  and 
cackled  his  derision  for  the  new  generation, 
and  all  its  works. 

"Dey  ain't  botherin'  me  none,  wid  dere  airs, 
dat  dey  ain't.  I  kin  git  long  widout  'em,  and 
I  wuz  gwine  on  home  'bout  my  own  business 
w'en  I  seen  dese  lights  up  yere,  and  I  says  to 
myse'f  dat  some  of  my  own  kind  of  w'ite  folks 
is  holdin'  fo'th  and  I'll  jess  drap  up  dar  and 
set  a  spell  wid  'em,  pervidin'  I'se  welcome, 
which  I  knows  full  well  I  is. 

"So  you  go  right  ahaid,  boss,  wid  whutever 
it  'tis  you's  fixin'  to  do.  I  'low  to  jes'  set  yere 
and  res'  my  frame." 

"Course  you  are  welcome,"  said  Judge 
Priest,  "and  we'll  be  mighty  glad  to  have  you 
stay  as  long  as  you're  a  mind  to.  We  feel  like 
you  sort  of  belong  here  with  us  anyway,  Uncle 
Ike,  account  of  your  record." 

The  old  negro  grinned  widely  at  the  compli 
ment,  showing  two  or  three  yellowed  snags 
planted  in  shrunken  bluish  gums. 

"Yas  suh,"  he  assented  briskly,  "I  reckin  I 
do."  The  heat  which  wilted  down  the  white 

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men  and  made  their  round  old  faces  look  almost 
peaked,  appeared  to  have  a  briskening  effect 
upon  him.  Now  he  got  upon  his  feet.  His 
lowliness  was  falling  away,  his  sense  of  his  own 
importance  was  coming  back  to  him. 

"I  reckin  I  is  got  a  sorter  right  to  be  yere, 
tho'  it  warn't  becomin'  in  me  to  mention  it 
fust,"  he  said.  "I  been  knowin'  some  of  you 
all  gen'1'men  since  'way  back  befoah  de  war 
days.  I  wonder  would  you  all  lak  to  hear 
'bout  me  and  whut  I  done  in  dem  times?" 

They  nodded,  in  friendly  fashion,  but  the 
speaker  was  already  going  on  as  though  sure 
of  the  answer: 

"I  'members  monstrous  well  dat  day  w'en 
my  young  marster  jined  out  wid  de  artillery 
and  Ole  Miss  she  send  me  'long  wid  him  to  look 
after  him,  'cause  he  warn't  nothin'  but  jess  a 
harum-scarum  boy  noway.  Less  see,  boss  — 
dat  must  be  goin'  on  thutty  or  forty  yeah  ago, 
ain't  it?" 

It  was  more  than  thirty  years  or  forty  either, 
but  neither  of  them  was  moved  to  correct  him. 
Again  their  heads  conveyed  an  assent,  and 
Uncle  Ike,  satisfied,  went  ahead,  warming  to 
his  theme: 

"So  I  went  'long  with  him  jess  lak  Ole  Miss 
said.  And  purty  soon,  he  git  to  be  one  of 
dese  yere  Lieutenants,  and  he  act  mighty 
biggotty  toward  hisse'f  wid  dem  straps  sewed 
onto  his  cote  collar,  but  I  bound  I  keep  him  in 
order  —  I  bound  I  do  dat,  suhs,  ef  I  don't  do 

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BLACK    AND    WHITE 

nothin'  else  in  dat  whole  war.  I  minds  the 
time  w'en  we  wuz  in  camp  dat  fust  winter  and 
yere  one  day  he  come  ridin'  in  out  of  de  rain, 
jess  drippin'  wet.  Befoah  'em  all  I  goes  up  to 
him  and  I  says  to  him,  I  says,  'Marse  Willie, 
you  git  right  down  off  en  dat  hoss  and  come 
yere  and  lemme  put  some  dry  clothes  on  you. 
What  Ole  Miss  gwine  say  to  me  ef  I  lets  you 
set  round  here,  ketchin'  yore  death?' 

"Some  of  dem  y 'other  young  gen'l'men 
laff  den  and  he  git  red  in  de  face  and  tell 
me  to  go  'way  from  dere  and  let  him  be.  I 
says  to  him,  I  says,  'I  promised  yore  maw 
faithful  to  'tend  you  and  look  after  you  and  I 
pintedly  does  aim  to  do  so.'  I  says,  'Marse 
Willie,'  I  says,  'I  hope  I  ain't  gwine  have  to 
keep  on  tellin'  you  to  git  down  off' en  dat  hoss.' 
Dem  y'others  laff  louder'n  ever  den  and  he  cuss 
and  r'ar  and  call  me  a  meddlin'  black  raskil. 
But  I  tek  notice  he  got  down  off'en  dat  hoss 
—  I  lay  to  dat. 

"But  I  didn't  have  to  'tend  him  long.  Naw 
suh,  not  very  long.  He  git  killed  de  very  fust 
big  battle  we  wuz  in,  which  wuz  Shiloh.  Dat 
battery  shore  suffer  dat  day.  'Long  tow'rds 
evenin'  yere  dey  come  fallin'  back,  all  scorified 
and  burnt  black  wid  de  powder  and  I  sees  he 
ain't  wid  'em  no  more  and  I  ax  'bout  him  and 
dey  tells  me  de  Battery  done  los'  two  of  its 
pieces  and  purty  near  all  de  hosses  and  dat 
young  Marse  Willie  been  killed  right  at  de  out 
set  of  de  hard  fightin'.  I  didn't  wait  to  hear 

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no  mo'n  dat  —  dat  wuz  'nuff  fur  me.  I  puts 
right  out  to  find  him. 

"GenTmen,  dat  warn't  no  fittin'  place  to 
be  prowlin'  'bout  in.  Everywhahs  you  look 
you  see  daid  men  and  crippled  men.  Some 
places  dey  is  jess  piled  up;  and  de  daid  is 
beginnin'  to  swell  up  already  and  de  wounded 
is  wrigglin'  round  on  de  bare  ground  and  some 
of  'em  is  beggin'  for  water  and  some  is  beggin' 
for  somebody  to  come  shoot  'em  and  put  'em 
out  of  dere  miz'ry.  And  ever  onc't  in  a  wile 
you  hear  a  hoss  scream.  It  didn't  sound  like 
no  hoss  tho',  it  sound  mo'  lak  a  pusson  or  one 
of  dese  yere  catamounts  screamin'. 

"But  I  keep  on  goin'  on  'count  of  my  bein' 
under  obligations  to  'tend  him  and  jess  him 
alone.  After  while  it  begin  to  git  good  and 
dark  and  you  could  see  lanterns  bobbin'  round 
whar  dere  wuz  search  parties  out,  I  reckin. 
And  jess  befo'  the  last  of  de  light  fade  'way  I 
come  to  de  place  whar  de  Battery  wuz  stationed 
in  the  aidge  of  a  little  saige-patch  lak,  and  dar 
I  find  him  —  him  and  two  y'others,  right  whar 
dey  fell.  Dey  wuz  all  three  layin'  in  a  row  on 
dere  backs  jes'  lak  somebody  is  done  fix  'em 
dat  way.  His  chist  wuz  tore  up,  but  scusin' 
de  dust  and  dirt,  dar  warn't  no  mark  of  vilence 
on  his  face  a  t'all. 

"Iknowed  dey  warn't  gwine  put  Ole  Miss's 
onliest  dear  son  in  no  trench  lak  he  wuz  a  daid 
hoss  —  naw  suh,  not  wile  I  had  my  stren'th.  I 
tek  him  up  in  my  arms  —  I  wuz  mighty  sur- 

[340] 


"HE   WARN'T    NOTHIN'    BUT   JES' 
A   BOY    EZ    I   TOLD   YOU." 


BLACK    AND     WHITE 

vig'rous  dem  times  and  he  warn't  nothin'  but 
jes'  a  boy,  ez  I  told  you  —  so  I  tek  him  up  and 
tote  him  'bout  a  hundred  yards  'way  whar  dar's 
a  little  grove  of  trees  and  de  soil  is  sort  of  soft 
and  loamy;  and  den  and  dere  I  dig  his  grave. 
I  didn't  have  no  reg'lar  tools  to  dig  wid,  but 
I  uses  a  pinted  stick  and  one  of  dese  yere  bay- 
nets  and  fast  ez  I  loosen  de  earth  I  cast  it 
out  wid  my  hands.  And  'long  towo'ds  day 
light  I  gits  it  deep  nuff  and  big  nuff.  So  I 
fetch  water  frum  a  little  branch  and  wash  off 
his  face  and  I  wrop  him  in  a  blanket  w'ich  I 
pick  up  nearby  and  I  compose  his  limbs  and  I 
bury  him  in  de  ground." 

His  voice  had  swelled,  taking  on  the  long, 
swinging  cadences  by  which  his  race  voices 
its  deeper  emotions  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow 
or  religious  exaltation.  Its  rise  and  fall  had 
almost  a  hypnotizing  effect  upon  the  two  old  men 
who  were  his  auditors.  The  tale  he  was  telling 
was  no  new  one  to  them.  It  had  been  written 
a  score  of  times  in  the  county  papers;  it  had 
been  repeated  a  hundred  times  at  reunions  and 
Memorial  Day  services.  But  they  listened, 
canting  their  heads  to  catch  every  word  as 
though  it  were  a  new-told  thing  and  not  a 
narrative  made  familiar  by  nearly  fifty  years  of 
reiteration  and  elaboration. 

"I  put  green  branches  on  top  of  him  and  I 
bury  him.  And  den  w'en  I'd  done  mark  de 
place  so  I  wouldn't  never  miss  it  w'en  I  come 
back  fur  him,  I  jes'  teks  my  foot  in  my  hand 

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and  I  puts  out  fur  home.  I  slip  through  de 
No'thern  lines  and  I  heads  for  ole  Lyon  County. 
I  travels  light  and  I  travels  fast  and  in  two  weeks 
I  comes  to  it.  It  ain't  been  but  jes'  a  little 
mo'n  a  year  since  we  went  'way  but  Gor 
Almighty,  genTmen,  how  dat  war  is  done 
change  ever'thing.  My  ole  Miss  is  gone — 
she  died  de  very  day  dat  Marse  Willie  got 
killed,  yas  suh,  dat  very  day  she  taken  down 
sick  and  died  —  and  her  brother,  ole  Majah 
Machen  is  gone  too  —  he's  'way  off  down  in 
Missippi  somewhars  refugeein'  wid  his  folks  — 
and  de  rest  of  de  niggers  is  all  scattered  'bout 
ever'whars.  De  Fed'ruls  is  in  charge  and  de 
whole  place  seem  lak,  is  plum'  busted  up  and 
distracted. 

"So  I  jedge  dat  I  is  free.  Leas' wise,  dar 
ain't  nobody  fur  me  to  repote  myse'f  to,  an'  dar 
ain't  nobody  to  gimme  no  ordahs.  So  I  starts 
in  f ollerin'  at  my  trade  —  I  is  a  waggin  maker 
by  trade  as  you  gen'l'men  knows  —  and  I 
meks  money  and  saves  it  up,  a  little  bit  at  a 
time,  and  I  bury  it  onder  de  dirt  flo'  of  my  house. 

"After  'while  shore-nuff  freedom  she  come 
and  de  war  end,  soon  after  dat,  and  den  it 
seem  lak  all  de  niggers  in  de  world  come  flockin* 
in.  Dey  act  jess  ez  scatter-brained  as  a  drove 
of  birds.  It  look  lak  freedom  is  affectin'  'em 
in  de  haid.  At  fust  dey  don't  think  'bout 
settlin'  down  —  dey  say  de  gover'mint  is  gwine 
give  'em  all  forty  acres  and  a  mule  apiece  — 
and  dey  jess  natchelly  obleeged  to  wait  fur 

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BLACK    AND    WHITE 


dat.  But  I  'low  to  my  own  se'f  dat  by  de  time 
de  gover'mint  gits  'round  to  Lyon  County  my 
mule  is  gwine  be  so  old  I'll  have  to  be  doctorin* 
him  'stid  of  plowin'  him.  So  I  keeps  right  on, 
follerin'  my  trade  and  savin'  a  little  yere  and 
a  little  dar,  'tell  purty  soon  I  had  money  nuff 
laid  by  fur  whut  I  need  it  fur." 

There  was  a  crude  majesty  in  the  old  negro's 
pose  and  in  the  gesturing  of  his  long  arms.  It 
was  easy  to  conceive  that  his  granddam  had 
been  an  African  Chief tainess.  The  spell  of 
his  story-telling  filled  the  bare  hall.  The  comb 
of  white  that  ran  up  his  scalp  stood  erect  like 
carded  wool  and  his  jaundiced  eyeballs  rolled 
in  his  head  with  the  exultation  of  his  bygone 
achievement.  In  different  settings  a  priest  of 
ancient  Egypt  might  have  made  such  a  figure. 

"I  had  money  nuff  fur  whut  I  needs  it  fur," 
he  repeated  sonorously,  "and  so  I  goes  back 
to  dat  dere  battle-field.  I  hires  me  a  wite  man 
and  a  waggin  and  two  niggers  to  help  and  I 
goes  dar  and  I  digs  up  my  young  marster  frum 
de  place  whar  he  been  layin'  all  dis  time,  and 
I  puts  him  in  de  coffin  and  I  bring  him  back 
on  de  railroad  cyars,  payin'  all  de  expenses,  and 
actin'  as  de  chief  mourner.  And  I  buries  him 
in  de  buryin'  ground  at  de  home-place  right 
'longside  his  paw,  which  I  knowed  Ole  Miss 
would  a  wanted  it  done  jes'  dat  way,  ef  she 
had  been  spared  to  live  and  nothin'  happened. 
Wen  all  dat  is  done  I  know  den  dat  I  is  free 
in  my  own  mind  to  come  and  to  go;  and  I 

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packs  up  my  traps  and  my  plunder  and  leave 
ole  Lyon  County  and  come  down  yere  to  dis 
town,  whar  I  is  been  ever  since. 

"But  frum  dat  day  fo'th  dey  calls  me  a  wite 
folks'  nigger,  some  of  'em  does.  Well,  I  reckin 
I  is.  De  black  folks  is  my  people,  but  de  wite 
folks  is  always  been  my  frends,  I  know  dat 
good  and  well.  And  it  stands  proven  dis  very 
night.  De  black  people  is  de  same  ez  cast  me 
out,  and  dat  fool  Jones  nigger  he  sets  in  my 
'pinted  place  on  de  flatform,"  —  a  lament 
came  again  into  his  chanting  tone,  and  he  took 
on  the  measured  swing  of  an  exhorter  at  an 
experience  meeting  —  "Dey  cast  me  out,  but 
I  come  to  my  wite  friends  and  dey  mek  me 
welcome." 

He  broke  off  to  shake  his  wool-crowned  head 
from  side  to  side.  Then  in  altogether  different 
voice  he  began  an  apology: 

"  Jedge,  you  and  Mistah  Bagby  must  please 
suh,  s'cuse  me  fur  ramblin'  on  lak  dis.  I  reckin 
I  done  took  up  nuff  of  yore  time  —  I  spects  I 
better  be  gittin'  on  towo'ds  my  own  home." 

But  he  made  no  move  to  start,  because  the 
old  Judge  was  speaking;  and  the  worn  look 
was  gone  from  the  Judge's  face,  and  the  stress 
of  some  deep  emotion  made  the  muscles  of  his 
under  jaws  tighten  beneath  the  dew-laps  of 
loose  flesh. 

"Some  who  never  struck  a  blow  in  battle, 
nevertheless  served  our  Cause  truly  and  faith 
fully,"  he  said,  as  though  he  were  addressing 

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BLACK    AND     WHITE 


an  audience  of  numbers.  "Some  of  the  bravest 
soldiers  we  had  never  wore  a  uniform  and  their 
skins  were  of  a  different  color  from  our  skins. 
/  move  that  our  comrade  Isaac  Copeland  here 
present  be  admitted  to  membership  in  this 
Camp.  If  this  motion  is  regular  and  accordin' 
to  the  rules  of  the  organization,  I  make  it. 
And  if  it  ain't  regular  —  I  make  it  jest  the 
same!" 

"I  second  that  motion,"  said  Sergeant  Jimmy 
Bagby  instantly  and  belligerently,  as  though 
defying  an  unseen  host  to  deny  the  propriety 
of  the  step. 

"  It  is  moved  and  seconded,"  said  Judge 
Priest  formally,  "that  Isaac  Copeland  be  made 
a  member  of  this  Camp.  All  in  favor  of  that 
motion  will  signify  by  saying  Aye!" 

His  own  voice  and  the  Sergeant's  answered 
as  one  voice  with  a  shrill  Aye. 

"Contrary,  no?"  went  on  the  Judge.  "The 
Ayes  have  it  and  it  is  so  ordered." 

It  was  now  the  Sergeant's  turn  to  have  an 
inspiration.  Up  he  came  to  his  feet,  sputtering 
in  his  eagerness. 

"And  now,  suh,  I  nominate  Veteran  Isaac 
Copeland  for  the  vacant  place  of  color  bearer 
of  this  Camp  —  and  I  move  you  furthermore 
that  the  nominations  be  closed." 

The  Judge  seconded  the  motion  and  again 
these  two  voted  as  one,  the  old  negro  sitting 
and  listening,  but  saying  nothing  at  all.  Judge 
Priest  got  up  from  his  chair  and  crossing  to  a 

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glass  cabinet  at  the  back  of  the  platform,  he 
opened  the  door  and  drew  forth  a  seven  foot 
staff  of  polished  wood  with  a  length  of  parti 
colored  silk  wadded  about  its  upper  part  and 
bound  round  with  a  silken  cord. 

"Uncle  Ike,"  he  said,  reverently,  "You  are 
our  color-sergeant  now  in  good  and  proper 
standin'  —  and  here  are  your  colors  for  you.'* 

The  old  negro  came  shuffling  up.  He  took 
the  flag  in  his  hands.  His  bent  back  unkinked 
until  he  stood  straight.  His  long  fleshless 
fingers,  knotted  and  gnarled  and  looking  like 
fire-blackened  faggots  twitched  at  the  silken 
square  until  its  folds  fell  away  and  in  the  gas 
light  it  revealed  itself,  with  its  design  of  the 
starred  St.  Andrew's  cross  and  its  tarnished 
gold  fringe. 

"I  thanky  suhs,  kindly,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  two  old  white  men,  standing  at  stiff  salute, 
"I  suttinly  does  appreciate  dis  —  and  I'll  tell 
you  why.  Dey  done  drap  me  out  of  de  Cullid 
Odd  Fellers,  count  of  my  not  bein'  able  to  meet 
de  dues,  and  dis  long  time  I  been  feared  dat 
w'en  my  time  come  to  go,  I'd  have  to  be  buried 
by  de  co'pperation.  But  now  I  knows  dat 
I'll  be  laid  away  in  de  big  stylish  cemetary  — 
wid  music  and  de  quality  wite  gen'1'men  along 
and  ker'riges.  And  maybe  dar'll  be  a  band. 
Ain't  dat  so,  gen'l'men  —  ain't  dar  goin'  to 
be  a  band  'long  too?"  cj 

They  nodded.  They  were  of  the  same 
generation,  these  two  old  white  men  and  this 

[346] 


BLACK    AND     WHITE 


lone  old  black  man,  and  between  them  there  was 
a  perfect  understanding.  That  the  high  honor 
they  had  visited  upon  him  meant  to  their  minds 
one  thing  and  to  his  mind  another  thing  was 
understandable  too.  So  they  nodded  to  him. 

They  came  down  the  steep  stairs,  the  Judge, 
and  the  Sergeant  abreast  in  front,  the  new 
color  bearer  two  steps  behind  them,  and  when 
they  were  outside  on  the  street,  the  Judge 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  a  moment,  then  slipped 
something  shiny  into  the  old  negro's  harsh, 
horny  palm,  and  the  recipient  pulled  his  old 
hat  off  and  thanked  him,  there  being  dignity 
in  the  manner  of  making  the  gift  and  in  the 
manner  of  receiving  it,  both. 

The  Judge  and  the  Sergeant  stood  watching 
him  as  he  shuffled  away  in  the  darkness,  his 
loose  slashed  brogans  clop-lopping  up  and 
down  on  his  sockless  feet.  Probably  they 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  explain  why  they 
stood  so,  but  watch  him  they  did  until  the  old 
negro's  gaunt  black  shadow  merged  into  the 
black  distance.  When  he  was  quite  gone  from 
sight,  they  faced  about  the  other  way  and 
soberly  and  silently,  side  by  side,  trudged  away, 
two  stoutish,  warm,  weary  old  men. 

At  the  corner  they  parted.  The  Judge  con 
tinued  alone  along  Jefferson  Street.  A  trolley 
car  under  charter  for  the  Eighth  whizzed  by 
him,  gay  with  electric  lights.  On  the  rear 
platform  a  string  band  played  rag  time  of  the 

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newest  and  raggedest  brand,  and  between  the 
aisle  and  on  the  seats  negro  men  and  women 
were  skylarking  and  yelling  to  friends  and 
strangers  along  the  sidewalk.  The  sawing 
bleat  of  the  agonized  bass  fiddle  cut  through 
the  onspeeding  clamor,  but  the  guitars  could 
hardly  be  heard.  A  little  further  along,  the 
old  Judge  had  to  skirt  the  curbing  to  find  a  clear 
way  past  a  press  of  roystering  darkies  before 
a  moving  picture  theatre  where  a  horseshoe 
of  incandescent  glowed  about  a  sign  reading 
Colored  People's  Night  and  a  painted  canvas 
banner  made  enthusiastic  mention  of  the 
historic  accuracies  of  a  film  dealing  with  The 
Battle  of  San  Juan  Hill,  on  exhibition  within. 
The  last  of  the  rented  livery  rigs  passed  him, 
the  lathered  horse  barely  able  to  pluck  a  jog  out 
of  his  stiff  legs.  Good  natured  smiling  faces, 
brown,  black,  and  yellow  showed  everywhere 
from  under  the  brims  of  straw  hats  and  above 
the  neckbands  of  rumpled  frocks  of  many  colors. 
The  Eighth  of  August  still  had  its  last  hours  to 
live  and  it  was  living  them  both  high  and  fast. 
When  Judge  Priest,  proceeding  steadily  on 
ward,  came  to  where  Clay  Street  was  brooding, 
a  dark  narrow  little  thoroughfare,  in  the  abun 
dant  covert  of  many  trees,  the  tumult  and  the 
shouting  were  well  dimmed  in  the  distance 
behind  him.  He  set  his  back  to  it  all  and  turned 
into  the  bye-street,  an  old  tired  man  with  lag 
ging  legs,  and  the  shadows  swallowed  him  up. 

[348] 


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